


The Charlie Horse Theory

by ragewerthers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Johns in a bit of distress, M/M, Omega John, Sherlock might be in distress soon if he's not careful, Winglock, just a few random drabbles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2017-12-28 09:26:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragewerthers/pseuds/ragewerthers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been through a war, been beaten up by Chinese acrobatic smugglers and fought a man who was almost twice his size... but this is one enemy that he can never escape and doesn't know if he'll survive... and if Sherlock doesn't shut up there's a chance he won't either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Charlie Horse Theory

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of drabbles that I'm writing as prompts and ideas come in... just a look into the domestic side of their relationship really... or as domestic as it can get when it's these two.

“T-there’s a slight chance... that I won’t make it out of this alive,” John groaned through clenched teeth, his wings wrapping more fully around him as another wave of pain seized him. He wondered how on God’s green earth his life had come to this. The amount of blood that had already managed to escape him was staggering. The fact he was still alive amazed him and yet he couldn't find it in himself to thank his lucky stars considering the amount of pain that still wracked his body. This wasn't how he had planned to go. Not by a long shot. Actually... getting shot had been number one on his list of causes of death since the military. Yet here he was... safe in his own home with his mate by his side... with no help in sight. At least not for a week anyway.

By all accounts one would think that John had been shot in the flat by some sniper out to get Sherlock, but as has already been established, it was not a gunshot wound that finally felled the ex-soldier. Nor was it a stab wound, poisoning, or mishap with the harpoon. It was something much worse that he would actually survive from even if he didn't believe it possible at the moment. It was something that every woman had to go through and every Omega male. John H. Watson was on is period.

“It can’t honestly be as painful as you’re making it out to be. You’ve been shot for Christ sake,” Sherlock pointed out as he folded his arms over his broad chest and looked at the little feathery ball that was his mate. However, it appeared that said little feathery ball was more than capable of still striking fear right to the core of his soul with a single glance. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he realized that he may have made a mistake as two storm blue eyes looked at him with malice and murder within their depths.

“You are so lucky that I can’t move from my personal hell over here or you would be a dead man, Sherlock Holmes,” he growled, his teeth bared slightly as he clutched a little more at the heating pad that he prayed would somehow relieve him of this agony. “Considering you have never been shot and will never understand the joy of menstrual cramps let me give you a quick little idea of what this feels like. Imagine a Charlie horse… the worst Charlie horse you’ve ever experienced, yeah? Now times it by two hundred, focus the pain on the area of your manhood and add in that someone has just tied your cock into a balloon animal. THAT IS WHAT THIS IS ON A GOOD DAY!” With that final statement he curled back in on himself and whimpered miserably.

This explanation was more than enough to make Sherlock lower his arms and clasp his hands in front of himself as his wings gave a little twitch forward as though waiting to fend off anyone intent on wanting to practice balloon animals on his genitalia.

“I… understand a little more now, John… thank you,” he mumbled and in response got a little growl and pained look from his mate. He realized that if it was him on the sofa John would have given him a few teasing jibes by now, but would have ultimately taken care of him. He, on the other hand, had spent most of his day working on the various dissolving rates of spinal cords in different acids. After another moment of thought Sherlock turned on his heel and in a flash of raven coloured wings and purple shirt he was gone.

Looking over at where Sherlock had been John gave another little grumble and closed his eyes, sliding down a bit on the sofa and resting his head against a pillow as he tried to find a good way to sit that wouldn't lead to:  
a) A mess  
b) Discomfort and,  
c) Him accidentally pulling the heating pad out of the socket again and having to wait for it to warm up. That had been one of the darkest five minutes of is life. Not that right now was much brighter.

It seemed only five minutes later when he heard the faint whistle of the kettle and his brows furrowed together. No... it was his imagination playing tricks on him again. He had been craving a nice hot cuppa for what felt like hours, possibly days, but the discomfort of moving had kept him huddled on the sofa with no intention of moving anytime soon. So that left Sherlock, but his mate was far too busy to give him and his pain a second thought as had been made evident by that little remark not ten minutes ago. Lost in his thoughts of misery he startled when he heard a soft voice in front of him, making him tense up again in pain for a moment before he focused on the apologetic face of his mate holding a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a blanket in the other.

"I thought this might help. Tea is supposed to help with this sort of thing, I think. I need to do more research on the subject before I can give you a definitive answer on that," he said with a little smile as a slightly stunned John sat up and reached out to take the mug from Sherlock, cradling it close to his chest.

"That was... very sweet of you, Sherlock," John offered with a little smile of his own, not regretting his choice of words toward the man earlier, but wanting to show that he wasn't going to snap at him again. Sherlock did take this as a good sign and after a moment he moved to take a seat next to his mate, covering them both in the blanket he had found and moving to wrap one dark wing and pale arm around his darlings beige wings and smaller frame to hold him close.

"I realized that a cuddle won't help with the cramps, but I know that it does make you feel better when you're feeling awful. I just forget sometimes that I have the power to make you feel better in the first place," Sherlock said softly, pressing a kiss to Johns temple as the man relaxed against him and took a sip of the honey sweetened tea with an appreciative hum. "Not to mention I didn't want to invade your 'personal hell' and get my manhood twisted into a balloon sword or hat."

John couldn't help giggling at that and nuzzled up against his detective. "It's alright, love. You and your manhood are safe for now. I'll let you know how I'm feeling tomorrow... if I manage to survive."


	2. The Grizzly Bear Wake Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another scene out of 221B in which Sherlock is now the one having a bit of difficulty and John is only trying to help... sort of... okay not really...

To be fair, John really should have been expecting this. The man hadn't slept in... oh... probably four days and after solving the case of the 'Mad Clockmaker' it was bound to cause this mini coma (which was the only way to describe this really). However, be that as it may, his detective had been asleep for almost a day and a half now and he needed to get up to remedy the fact that he hadn't eaten anything in the those four days either. During this time the man had lived off of tea and one jammy dodger which had only been eaten when John had stuck it in a tea cup and handed it to his darling who tried to subsequently drink it. He may have choked a bit, but at least he ate something. The excuse of, 'But digestion takes away from brainwork!', was starting to wear thin and pretty soon Sherlock would have to come up with something a bit more substantial then that. So that was how John found himself back in their room at around midday, staring at his mate wrapped up in the sheet and duvet with one wing stuck under the covers and the other flopped over the side of the bed haphazardly. It looked like the worlds most ungraceful swan dive.

Staring at this little display it was a wonder that John had survived the previous night without either suffering strangulation, smothering or a well aimed kicked to.... places best not named right now. Refocusing his thoughts he shook his head and stretched his arms a bit, limbering up for the event that was about to follow. If falling asleep was this ungraceful then there really wasn't a term to express how his darling woke up. The best description was a tranquilized grizzly bear... with a grudge... whose mother you just insulted.... while kicking him in the knee. That is to say that there was going to be a temper, flailing, tears... and that was just John.

"Alright, sweet pea.... time to get up!" he called as cheerfully as possible as he moved to get the curtains open in their room. As expected this got him nothing, but he had checked and Sherlock was indeed breathing so he was at least alive.

Soon the curtains were opening and the room lit up quite nicely, the sun spilling its warmth over the bed and the floor... clothes strewn here and there and what looked like a forgotten experiment still tucked away in the corner. Right... that would definitely have to be taken care of. Before he could get out his first 'tsk' he heard shuffling on the bed and thought that perhaps a miracle had happened. He should have known better as all he was met with was his darlings still figure, peacefully asleep on the bed, but now with a pillow covering his head. Wonderful.

With a heavy sigh, John walked over as quietly as possible so as not to alert the man and quickly latched onto the pillow and tugged. What should have happened was that the pillow should have come away easily in his hand and his darling would have hissed at the sunlight like some mole person exposed to the outside world. What actually happened was that the detective apparently had a grip on the pillow as well and the fabric slipped from Johns fingers and he stumbled back.

"Oh... so you are awake. Just deciding to be a lazy bastard then," he grumbled to which he got no response, no movement, but knew that he had been heard. "Well if that's how you want to play this, fine. Prepare for war, Sherlock Holmes."

With that John began to stalk around the bed, looking for weakspots in his prey with narrowed eyes. If Sherlock was capable of having a death grip on a pillow than he was more than capable of getting up. As he reached the end of the bed he noted one pale foot sticking out and deciding that he wasn't going to play fair anymore. Carefully he reached forward with one hand and gave said foot a quick tickle. The response was a snort and one pale foot quickly being pulled into the safety of his blanket cocoon. The reaction was rather adorable and John bit his lip to stop a giggle as he went back to prowling.

"You realize I'm not going to give up, sweet cheeks. You need to get up and eat and...," he paused to take in a few dramatic sniffs, "...most definitely bathe you filthy creature." Once again he was met with no response apart from some bristled feathers that told him he was starting to get to the man. Considering Sherlock had decided to skip the 'Grizzly bear' wake up and move toward the 'three year old in a huff' wake up, he decided it was safe enough to continue in this frame. And what better way to wake up a three year old than to act like one yourself?

In a flash John was standing up on the bed and like any proud middle aged man... promptly started bouncing on it. "Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!" he chanted with each bounce, watching as Sherlock flailed slightly to find purchase on the jostling bed only to knock a lamp over with his extended wing and get himself into more of a straightjacket with his blankets. John was too busy laughing at his mates failed attempts at continuing to sleep to notice that he was bouncing too close to the ceiling light and... smack.

With a little yelp he flopped down onto the bed, holding his head and saying every string of swears he could possibly think of. Some of those beauties included, "Buggering jackhole!" and "Son of a biscuitless mother!". It wasn't until he started cursing the lights parentage that he felt the bed shaking and looked over to see his mate, still hidden under a pillow, shaking with laughter. "You are such an arse!" John grumbled at him. "I've just suffered severe head trauma and all you can do is lay there and chuckle. For all you know I could wake up tomorrow speaking a different language or... smelling colours!" This only got Sherlock laughing more and before long he came out of hiding, verdigris eyes sparkling as he looked over at his husband.

"You'll have to let me know what magenta smells like... I've always been curious," he chuckled, voice pitched deeper from sleep. Seeing his mate with that crooked smile and hearing that little jibe made John huff out a laugh even as he lightly shoved at the mans shoulder. "Shut up, you... I thought you were in a coma?" he challenged, covering his mates face with his own beige wing to which Sherlock chuckled and brought a hand up to peek through the feathers. "I was until someone decided to break my ceiling light."

John looked up at that, wondering if he had indeed broken anything. Before he knew it he found himself attacked by his partner and brought to lay down on the bed, the mans long limbs, apparently not as confined as he had imagined, know wrapped around him and pulling him close against his chest.

"Now... sweet cheeks, why don't we just rest a little while longer so I can make sure nothing has happened to that noggin of yours?" Sherlock murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of Johns head and snuggling back down. John struggling half-heartedly before giving up and burrowing back against his mate, eyes closing and giving a little huff. "Fine.... but only because you asked so nicely," he murmured.

Sherlock chuckled and held his mate protectively against him, just enjoying the mans warmth.

"Oh and Sherlock? Magenta smells like jammy dodgers...."


	3. The Burnt Toast Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if John isn't crampy and Sherlock has finally managed to drag himself out of bed... it doesn't mean the day is going to go too smoothly. Life's not that easy...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a prompt that I got from my friend AlfieTimewolf :) 
> 
> 'I know what your next chapter should be about. Making breakfast. Call it 'The Burnt Toast Dilemma'. They get caught up in flirting with each other and forget about their breakfast'

It was on another one of those sorts of mornings where Sherlocks brain had gone on shutdown and John had had to resort to extreme measures to get his darling up, that the pair found themselves emerging from their bedroom into a bright, crisp day. Although this time Sherlock was in less of an amiable mood and John hadn't needed stitches or band-aids for knocking his head into anything.

"So what would you like for breakfast, love? Eggs? Bacon? Waffles? Pumpkin pie sprinkled with jelly beans and topped with horseradish?" the army doctor asked with a playful smile as he exited their bedroom and moved down the hall to their kitchen. He himself was feeling rather chipper this morning after having lifted up the mattress and literally rolling Sherlock out of bed. He was still in his night clothes, a pair of baggy grey sweatpants and black t-shirt, with his blue striped long sleeved shirt pulled on to keep the chill off. Sherlock, however... was not. Granted the man did have his own pyjamas on, but one couldn't tell that from a first glance at him.

Once he had entered out into the hallway, Sherlock looked like some sort of bed sheet clad monk as he shuffled his way along behind John. His eyes were slightly unfocused and squinty against the brightness of the day and his hair was a poofed up mess of curls and feathers... or at least what you could see sticking out of the pseudo-sheet hood was a mess. His wings dragged along lazily behind him doing some much needed sweeping and as John turned right toward the kitchen Sherlock immediately turned right back around and started what could only be described as a mad shuffle back toward the bedroom where he hoped to be able to lock the door behind himself and keep out evil short men intent on bullying him from sleep. Sadly John had noted the increase in shuffling and quickly turned around to latch onto the sheet and pull his darling to a halt.

"But Jooooohn!" the dignified and stoic detective whinged like a toddler. "It's bright, and early, and bright, and cold, and bright, and I'm tired.... and did I mention that it's unnaturally bright?!" Sherlock took a few steps forward, dragging his smaller mate along behind him a few inches before deciding he was too tired from the previous three days to go much farther.

John chuckled as he was dragged along and couldn't help smiling more at his mates obvious discomfort and hatred for the sun this morning, but he refused to let the man burrow back into the little nest he had created in bed. Instead he decided to play this little game of tug-of-war and pulled the sheet toward himself. Slowly but surely Sherlock followed along with it until John could wrap his arms around the mans middle and nuzzle between his shoulder blades.

"Contrary to popular belief I am actually more observant than you give me credit for. I do realize that it's early, cold and bright... but I want to share a lovely breakfast with the worlds only consulting detective... especially when he looks as adorable as you do in that sheet cocoon of yours," he teased, giving the man a little squeeze before standing up on tiptoe to press a soft kiss to the nape of Sherlocks neck. He moved away after that with another warm smile to the man and entered the kitchen. Sherlock, much to his credit, didn't make a beeline back to the bedroom. Instead he felt a bit of warmth from the kiss to the back of his neck and decided that maybe an early morning breakfast wouldn't be so bad. Debating between the pros and cons of bringing a rumpled sheet into the kitchen around skillets and the stove he decided that he didn't want Egyptian cotton melted onto his skin and cast the thin material over the back of Johns chair before following after him.

John had already started getting out the bread, eggs and some bacon, humming as he be-bopped around the kitchen deciding that a nice little breakfast was just what they needed. Sherlock smiled as he watched his darling moving around, taking note of the way his wings would twitch a bit in time with his humming and how he always managed to get one sleeve to stay rolled up, but not the other. His hair was even still mussed a little in the back and on the left where he had been sleeping last night which the detective also found utterly endearing. He stepped over beside his mate who was busy starting to peel apart the bacon for the skillet and picked up the kettle to start making them up some tea. Settling himself by the sink for the moment he carefully stretched one coal black wing back to brush against Johns before pretending that he hadn't and moved to set the filled kettle back on the stove. John, for his part, smiled as he felt the soft touch... feathers fluttering a little as he took a quick peek over at his lover and finished dropping the last piece of bacon in to the sizzling skillet.

As he walked over to the sink to wash up his hands he made sure to nudge Sherlocks hip in passing with his own, a deep, little chuckle escaping the taller man as he eyed up his army doctor. Sherlock decided that he too needed to wash his hands after putting some bread into the toaster and moved to stand behind John, his chest pressed against the mans back as he leaned over and started to run his hands under the water. All John could do was smile, blushing a bit as he felt Sherlock rest his head on his shoulder which in turn made it impossible for Sherlock not to kiss the now slightly red ear that was next to him.

It was the gentle press of lips that led to John scrunching his shoulder slightly with a small giggle, which then led to Sherlock reaching over on the counter to grab the towel, drying both of their hands and continuing to press kisses against the sensitive area. All of this was followed by the towel soon being forgotten and tossed into the sink as John turned around in his darlings arms and kissed him gently on the lips. Honestly, kissing Sherlock Holmes was probably the best thing in the world... though of course Sherlock would say that kissing one John Hamish Watson was definitely the best. Considering both were now caught up in one of their absolute favourite things the kisses and smiles continued on in abudance, Johns hands sliding up over his mates broad chest to wrap around his neck, while Sherlocks longer arms wrapped around his partners waist. What an utterly blissful morning.

"Um, John.... do you smell something burning?"

One call to the fire department, a ruined toaster and skillet, and one angry landlady later, John and Sherlock found themselves nestled on the sofa with a simple cup of tea for both, three blankets covering them as they kept the windows open to rid the flat of the remaining burnt smell. Johns nose was already tipping a little red from the cold and his wings wrapped around himself a bit more under the blankets. Sherlock looked over at his partner with a wide smile and moved to wrap his own wing and arm around him, pressing a soft kiss to his mates short, sandy hair.

"Thank you for getting me up for breakfast, John."


	4. The Canine Conundrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock may have finally met his match when someone more destructive, loud and John-stealing comes to 221B

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another story based off a prompt I got from 1sendai :)
> 
> 'What if John tried to sneak in a kitten/puppy/hedgehog/gila monster. Of course he would act guilty and the great detective would find out and insist on the pets removal. Would he eventually give in to his darlings sad eyes and keep the pet?'

It was a relatively quiet day at 221B... this alone should have at least roused the suspicions of one consulting detective who was currently absorbed in gazing into the bright light of his microscopic lenses to try and figure out the actual damage caused to a spinal cord exposed to battery acid. Nothing ever stayed quiet for too long around here, but he was so absorbed in his thoughts and in his work that he didn't hear the excited footsteps of his darling rush in halfway up the stairs then promptly right back down. This was then followed by doors opening and closing, a high-pitched cooing noise, some mumbled words and then the sound of a doctor returning from the clinic gingerly bounding up the steps.

That was what first caught Sherlocks attention really. The spring in Johns step after just working a double shift at the clinic with a disgruntled Sarah who was trying everything in her power to get John to resign. John should have done what he always did when this happened. Slam the downstairs door, trod up the steps slowly and with a little heat behind each step, enter into the flat with a huff as he kicked off his boots then promptly walk into the kitchen without a word to make up some tea that he wouldn't drink... merely brood over for the rest of the evening until Sherlock finally lured the man into a cuddle and made everything alright again. That was not what happened today. Instead his mate entered the flat looking the very definition of the word chipper, a soft smile on his face as he carefully toed off his shoes and hung up his jacket. Sherlock was now actually more interested in this little mystery then the slightly smoking spinal cord currently dissolving on a plate next to the microscope. "You killed her, didn't you?"

"What?" John asked, pausing in the loosening of his tie, his expression now curious even as that little smile stayed just as present as ever. "I've no idea what you're talking about. Its merely been a good day, is all. Yep... just... a good day." With that John gave a quick little smile, something sneaking over his expression that Sherlock didn't get a chance to figure out before his partner all but zipped out of the living room and moved toward the bedroom to change into something more comfortable. Well... that was rather odd. This wasn't the first time that John had had that look. There was the time that he had tried to trick him into opening up a can of peanut brittle on April fools day... it wasn't peanut brittle. Or the time his mate had bought him a new pocket magnifying glass for his birthday and had tried to hide it, persuading him that... _'no, Sherlock... it's not in my back pocke-... what are you... no... no, stay back!'_ All of this added up to one thing... his darling was hiding something from him and fibbing like a fibbing fibber. Well... Sherlock most definitely couldn't have that.

After putting out the mini spinal cord fire and turning off the microscope, he got up and moved over to the mans jacket to see if he could find any trace or hint as to what could have prompted such a cheerful return. Granted, it was probably awful of him not to just accept that John did have a good day and also not good that he was currently searching through the pockets of his mates coat, but that little expression right at the end of their brief conversation was enough to peak his interest and send him on this little winding road to discover the secret of his love.

That was how John found Sherlock as he left their bedroom clad in a comfortable black and white striped jumper instead of the stiff button up he'd been sporting. The lanky detectives hands in his coat pockets as he gazed intently at the collar of said jacket. John folded his arms across his chest at this ridiculous image, his wings twitching a bit in annoyance and, to be honest, a bit of worry. "Having fun there, cupcake?" he asked with as much of a drawl as he could manage.

Sherlock seemed nonplussed by the disturbance and looked over at John with narrowed eyes, taking in his stance, his expression, the way that jumper really did fit his partners body quite nicely. Focus Sherlock! "I was merely looking for blood or hair samples to prove my theory that you've killed Sarah and thrown her body in the Thames. It's the only possible explanation I can come up with for why you'd look so... happy after a double shift. Look.. you're even wearing the telltale clothing of a criminal," he said, drawing his hands out of the coat pockets and pointing at the striped jumper before stepping closer to his mate who was now looking anywhere but at the detective for the moment before finding his resolve and staring back at the man.

"You do realize that it's still light out and everyone would have seen me dragging her body about the city before I could actually dump it. And how would I get her there anyway? The cabbies would ask questions and the tube has too many people on it anyway... not enough space," he retorted.

"So you _have_ been considering it! I knew it... but if not murdering your boss then why that happy little entrance?" he asked, keeping his expression narrowed as he slowly started to prowl around John who remained where he was, refusing to say anything at the moment that would only incriminate himself. "From what I can already tell, your body language is that of someone who is hiding something, the little vein popping out on your forehead telling me I've struck that little nerve and found at least one truth. So now the question is _what_ are you hiding? Now... judging by what I've already uncovered on your coats cuffs I can hazard a guess, but I think it would be more freeing if you were to admit to me what it is you've done that has made you so very, very happy." As Sherlock finished his little spiel he stood behind John, noting the flush of colour that rose up onto his mates neck and smiling proudly at it.

John, for his part, merely stood there stock still for a moment. He'd been so careful and Sherlock couldn't have actually found anything on him that quickly? Even after all this time, John still believed that one day... one bright and glorious day, he'd be able to get away with something. With a resilient little huff Johns wings hitched up a bit and he smacked Sherlock with one feathery pinion with uncanny aim as the detective stood behind him. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. I've done nothing and I've merely had a good da-.. hey!" he squeaked as he found one long arm wrapped around him, pinning his arms and body against his mates as the other hand patted Johns stomach.

"Oh my sweet, naive little, John. You realize that I have ways of making you talk and yet you continue to lie to me. Tsk, tsk," Sherlock murmured with a mock look of sympathy. It only took a moment for John to realize what Sherlock meant and shook his head. ""N-no! No... Sherlock, please. You don't have to do anything and it's... it's not fair!" he whinged slightly, feeling the mans fingers crook against his stomach and fighting a giggle that was already threatening to escape him. "You are such a bastard!"

"Yes, but I'm your bastard. And this could all have been avoided if you simply told me what it was that we both already know. I was trying to let you redeem yourself, love," Sherlock said with complete innocence as he started to wriggle his fingers against Johns stomach, tickling the poor man who quite honestly didn't think he deserved this kind of treatment after the day he'd had. As soon as the tickling started John began to wriggle in Sherlocks grasp, quite undignified giggles escaping him as he did his best to not say anything. That lasted all of five seconds. "St-stop! Stahp! I'll tehehell you! Plehehease!" John squeaked through his laughter, Sherlocks fingers pausing in their attack as he waited for Johns answer. It took a few seconds before John got the air he needed into his lungs. "I... I got a puppy," he admitted. "I was on my way home from work today and he just sort of... looked at me from one of the pet shop windows and... it was puppy love at first sight." There was no other way he could explain it. In an instant he had found that he couldn't simply walk away from the little face that peeked out at him from the store front and after one of the worlds most impulsiest, impulse buys... he found himself a proud dog owner. Now all that was left was waiting for the inevitable to happen as he felt Sherlock loosen his grip on him and take a step back. John turned around to face his mate as Sherlock tried to find the correct and decent way to say what he was thinking and not get his partner upset. After much consideration and thought he finally figured out how to express himself. "No. Absolutely not. We're not keeping a dog, John. They shed, they make messes, they bark and howl and cause a general raucous that isn't needed here." Yes... that should do it.

"And it's not like we don't already have something here that does all those things and so much more?," John retorted after straightening his jumper and looking back at the man pointedly. "Just... wait right here... maybe once you see him?" That was something that John thought would actually turn the tides in the early stages of this battle to keep the little pup. In a flash he turned on his heel and made his way out of the flat and down to Mrs. Hudsons. It was no more than two minutes later that John re-entered the living room with a little brown and white bulldog puppy cradled in his arms. "His name's Gladstone and he is a purebred Bulldog. He won't get very big so he won't take up all that much space in the flat, they aren't really known for barking and howling, and because he's short hair he won't shed.... that much," he said, mumbling the last comment as though the lower pitch would lead to it sounding more truthful.

Gladstone, who had been busy attempting to lick Johns face and only managing his chin at the moment, paused as he entered the new room and turned around to see Sherlock. The wrinkly faced ball of fur instantly bristled and in the course of three seconds started barking in something that sounded like a squeaky toy. A few grumbles rattled around his chest in between each bark and made John smile sheepishly even as he chuckled. This had to be the worlds most adorable puppy in Johns opinion and he wasn't usually one to coo over such things. Neither was Sherlock, apparently, and he wasn't about to start now. He narrowed his eyes at the growling and yapping bull pup. "Oh yes, John. The breed practically screams the word 'quiet'," he sneered as Gladstone decided that this new person was most definitely going to face his wrath. Sherlocks wings reflexively puffed at the barking which in turn served to make Gladstone bark all the more.

"It's okay, boy'o... it's alright. He doesn't mean anything by it," John murmured, his words being directed at a puppy with murderous intent in his eyes when they should have been directed toward his completely innocent, and dashingly handsome, mate. Sherlock scowled all the more at that and crossed his arms over his chest in defiance of the puppy. "He's got to go, John. We can't have a grumbling, growling little beast running around in case of clients," he said with a firm look. "The clients have never seemed to be bothered by the grumbling, growling little beast that already lives here," John quickly shot back, cradling a now more placated Gladstone against his chest.

"That's because you are so approachable in those jumpers of yours," Sherlock retorted just as quickly before he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. "He'll be nothing, but trouble."

"No he won't. Just... give him a day... just one day to prove himself and if it doesn't work then... that's it," John said, just knowing that Gladstone would be the perfect fit at 221B. Sherlock, however, wasn't convinced in the slightest, but the way John was looking at him right now as if he was about to crush every hope and dream he'd ever had into little bite size pieces if he said no worked against him and he gave a little sigh. "Fine. One day. If he so much as puts one paw out of line he's gone," Sherlock said with a nod and John beamed excitedly. "Thank you, Sherlock. You won't regret this I promise!"

Little did Sherlock know what was in store for him...  
\----------------------------------------------

It had to have been one of the most trying days of Sherlocks life so far. After agreeing to let Gladstone or as Sherlock now referred to him, 'ball of evil', stay for one day the puppy had done nothing but try to spite him. As soon as John had set him down on the floor it was discovered that Gladstone still thought that there was an score to be settled and rushed over to latch onto Sherlocks left trouser leg, growling and shaking his head viciously as he tried to take down the mighty foe. Sherlock believed the damned thing was trying to drag him back to the pits of hell from whence he came, but John found it hilarious and immediately took a few pictures with his phone. It was now set as his background.

Finally managing to pry his little jaws off of his trousers, Sherlock had retreated into the kitchen and left his mate and the angry ball of evil to play in the living room. He had just started to slice up a bit more spinal cord to resume his studies when a loud yelp followed by manic squeaked barks and Johns hysterical giggles erupted from the living room. After bandaging his thumb, Sherlock went to check out what the hell was happening only to find the puppy glaring down the smiley face on the wall and prowling closer by two steps before instantly running back and trying again. John was having the time of his life watching this spectacle and all Sherlock could do was feel the mother of all headaches coming on.

The rest of the night had gone on in that same vein. Constant barking, the loss of his left shoe, the unfortunate finding of one of Gladstones 'presents' in the darkened hallway that had led to more laughter from his mate and the loss of a very nice pair of socks for Sherlock. Sitting on the edge of his bed in his pyjamas later that night, Sherlock wondered what he had done wrong in his lifetime to warrant such havoc on his peaceful abode. After he answered his own question he decided not to dwell on it anymore and turned off his lamp before snuggling under the sheets and over to his mate who was already curled up on his side facing him, eyes closed and looking as peaceful and content as could be. The sight was heartwarming and for a few blessed seconds he had forgotten about the puppy version of Jaws that was no doubt chewing something that was precious to him into a million pieces.

Carefully he moved to slide in next to his darling, but as soon as he got within two inches he was met with low growls and his smile disappeared. "You've got to be kidding me," he mumbled to himself as he lifted the covers to find one ball of evil staring back at him and curled up against Johns stomach. A mixture of jealousy and sadness engulfed the detective and deciding that he didn't want to be attacked for wanting a simple cuddle he retreated to his side of the bed, his mate completely oblivious as he slept soundly next to him. A few minutes of self pity later Sherlock attempted to get sleep, a little frown on his face before he felt the bed sink in behind him and a little ball of warmth press against his back. What the hell? He didn't dare move for fear of Gladstone latching onto a wing and never letting go, but it seemed like the little pup wanted to make amends? Possibly he felt guilty for chasing him away time and time again. Whatever the reason there was no denying that as Sherlock finally did drift off to sleep, a little smile could be seen on his face.

As morning broke over the flat something... unbelievable had happened. It appeared that at some point in the middle of the night, detective and devil dog had become cuddle buddies. It was the first sight that John had woken up to and he had instantly found himself fighting the urge to 'aww'. Sherlock was asleep on his back, one arm flung over his face and the other wrapped almost protectively around a little bulldog puppy that was curled up content and asleep on his chest.

John slowly slid over next to his mate, resting his head on the mans shoulder and getting a little hum from his partner in return. Not wanting to disrupt detective or dog, he simply laid there and watched the two finally getting along harmoniously... even if they both had to be unconscious to do so. There was no doubt going to be more squabbles between the two of them, more thrown away socks and piddled on robes, but he could already tell that Gladstone wasn't going anywhere.


	5. The Fight or Flight Reflex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before John and Sherlock were a couple, before Gladstone, burnt toast and lazy mornings... they were friends. While friends protect you, they also help you in your time of need... and this was one of those times where Sherlock was the friend that John Watson needed...

It had started out as any normal day in Baker Street usually did. Sherlock hadn't slept the night before, John had overslept seeing as it was his day off from the clinic, and both were still getting used to the others peculiarities. It had just been found out by John that there was an ever increasing number of spots on the kitchen ceiling that had nothing to do with cooking and Sherlock had found that Johns army tidiness had destroyed no less that four of his mould experiments. At one point they'd actually gotten into a cleaning war which ended with a fire extinguisher, a can of beans and Mrs. Hudson calling the fire brigade. Slowly but surely things were starting to even out and both inhabitants were learning to live with each other and learn something new every day. Of course, Sherlock was able to pick up a few more things than John in a shorter amount of time and one of those things had puzzled him slightly.

It had been only a few nights prior to this rather uneventful morning. They had been chasing down an arsonist and alleged murderer, Arthur Gombeen, through the building of some second hand department store where everything was old and cost way too much for anyone to even consider stopping to look at any given item. The most excitement this place had seen in a long time was probably the love triangle being played out by three mice who lived on the second floor. That all changed with a shout and now three men were barreling through the stair wells, one with a stocky build and missing right thumb, one a lanky figure moving like a black cat on the prowl and a third shorter man only a few steps behind the prowler.

If Gombeen got up to the roof top there was every chance that he would take off with his less than impressive grey and brown wings that would have had a far easier time carrying him twenty years ago. This little threat was just that to Sherlock, a little threat. His own large, dark wings were made for the chase and for capturing the criminal class. There was no escaping him, not once his sights were set on you. As they continued to thunder up the steps the calamity quieted by the creaking and slamming of a door as Sherlock and John were left with one more flight of stairs before they reached the roof. This still didn't trouble the detective as he made his way up to the last landing, took a step outside and WHAP!

Sherlock was knocked clean off his feet and onto his back as a board came smashing against his shoulder, his breath stolen away by the force of it. Gombeen dropped the board with a clatter and rushed to the side of the building, pausing a moment as John emerged from the doorway and noticed the detective on the ground. "Sherlock!" he said quickly as he ran over to him, only for the detective to shake his head and point at the criminal. John could still get him, John could still apprehend the man. But as soon as the army doctor had turned his head and watched a panting Gombeen drop and fly off to whatever dive he resided in all he could do was stay by Sherlocks side and watch.

After the detective had gotten his breath and wits back about him he first thought that perhaps this had been one of those... loyalty things that John had displayed on more than one occasion already. That was why he didn't mention anything to John at the time, nor after they had gotten back and Sherlock had taken a look at his rather lovely purple and yellow brushed shoulder. No... it wasn't until later that evening when he started to think over a few things that he realized that even though they'd known each other for a few weeks now... he'd never once seen John fly. There had been plenty of times he could have, plenty of times it would have helped, but not once had the man so much as stretched out his wings in the flat. This had also been something that Sherlock had noticed, but had put down to him simply feeling that he didn't need to take up a lot of space. But the more he thought about it the more he began to surmise and soon there was a theory, a question... and now all there needed to be was a solution.

And now here they were. Sherlock seated in his armchair, plucking away at his tuned violin and debating whether or not he was actually going to play something or if he was merely going to tune and untune and then tune again, and John who had just padded down from his bedroom, his hair mussed on one side where he had slept heavily and his left wing held lower than the right. Sherlocks glasz eyes watched as John made his way a bit gracelessly into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee that the detective had actually gone about making in the hopes of rousing the sleeping doctor.

"Sleep well?" he asked as a groggy John walked into the living room and took a seat in his battered old chair. After taking a sip of his coffee John nodded, not really noticing the strangeness of all these niceties. "Have the day off then?" Came the next question, once again a little nod escaping the doctor who was still finding it well past him to actually be able to talk just yet. "Why don't you fly?"

This was when John actually took proper notice of the question. His eyes widened and he choked a little on his coffee, setting the mug down on the table next to him lest he spill it over himself and really wake up unpleasantly quick. "Wh-what? I fly... all the time... you just never see me," John rambled as he ran a hand through his hair and looked down at the violin in Sherlocks hands. "Planning on playing that today?" he pointed out, trying to change the subject. Sherlock was having none of it.

"You should know by now that there's no use trying to lie to me, John. But it is commendable that you still try," Sherlock drawled. "Now... why don't you fly? I'm going to save you from answering everything as I already know about the gunshot to your shoulder and thus the injury that your left wing has been inflicted to. Yet you never seem troubled by it if you knock it into something or stretch a little. Not to mention that although there is definitely scar tissue the cartilage seems to be perfectly intact as well as the feathers that have already grown back, if a bit crookedly. So... why don't you fly?"

John sat there through the mini-deduction, really, really hating when he was the one put under the microscope of this man. "It's none of your business why I don't fly," he said a bit gruffly, feeling quite defensive and not wanting to deal with this after getting up no less then ten minutes ago. Then it occurred to him that if he didn't answer now he would be badgered until he actually looked forward to going to work and that was a world he didn't want to be a part of. His shoulders slumped slightly and the fingers of his left hand picked at the arm of his chair. "I don't fly because I can't anymore," he mumbled to the fireplace, resolutely not looking at his flatmate. "It doesn't... work, like it used to. Sure I can stretch it and what not and the physio-therapist said that it looks fine, but every time I try to fly it just... doesn't work." That was the best way to explain it really. He had tried after he'd gotten back, he really had. It just seemed like when he actually went to lift off from the ground his wing would send a pain signal that would stagger him completely until he simply decided that it was pointless to keep trying and... given up.

Listening to Johns explanation, and finding it hard to believe that his wing simply wouldn't work when all signs pointed to a mental block, Sherlock set his violin to the side of his chair and leaned forward. "Get dressed and meet me on the rooftop. I think I can help," he said with a smug smile before getting up himself and moving toward the fire escape. That actually hadn't been the answer that John was expecting and he quickly looked up as Sherlock went to leave, floundering for words for a moment before shaking his head. "I'm a doctor, Sherlock... I know physical limitations when I see them... _and_ when I experience them!" he called out to which Sherlock chuckled. "Doesn't matter... all relative... meet you on the roof!"

John watched as the man disappeared from view and shook his head as he slumped back against the chair. He hadn't even been able to get through his coffee yet, damn it.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

"This is ridiculous. Fledglings learn this stuff," John huffed as he found himself on the roof of 221B with his mad flatmate who was already running through the pre-flight stretches that, John had accurately described, every young flier knew. "You're right. They do. Now show me that you learned or is this too complicated for you right now?" Sherlock asked with a little smirk, extending his wings to the sides, holding it for five seconds then raising them up for another count of ten.

John scowled over at the man. "I have so learned and no... this isn't too complicated." With a huff John extended his beige wings out to the sides, holding for the required five seconds before moving to extend them up for the ten. "There? See... I told you," he said as he brought his wings back down and crossed his arms over his chest. Stretched were simply enough, how else could he have gotten through physio if it hadn't been?

"Alright... then what about these?" Sherlock asked in an almost challenging manner, quickly seeing that John hated to be thought inadequate (though who didn't?) and using it to his advantage for the time being. He let his wings raise up to the middle stance and with a quick sweep down, pushed up off the ground with his legs and hovered for three seconds before lowering. "Primary school stuff really, but if you want I can try and think of something easier?"

Up to this point John had watched Sherlock rising into the air effortlessly like he had once been able to, but that had all changed with a bullet. He was going to come up with some excuse to stop, but that smug smile on the mans face and his little comment only made John bristle. "I don't need you to come up with something easier for me. I don't need to be mollycoddled," he shot back, extending his wings out to the sides as an angry flush appeared on his neck. With a quick sweep of his wings down and a push off from his legs John found himself in the air and then promptly falling and landing shakily before collapsing onto his knees. As soon as his wings had been asked to carry the weight of his body up his left wing had decided that no... no it wasn't going to do that, and a searing pain had burnt down right to the back of his shoulder. Now the flush that had risen in anger was simply one of embarrassment as he stayed on his knees, panting and bringing his wings down as the pain slowly dulled.

While John tried to get his breath back, Sherlock had stood motionless watching everything unfold. John had told him that he'd gone to physio... but he still deemed himself incapable. Sherlock believed that he was most definitely able, but now instead of it seemed to simply be another case of mind over matter mixed in with his old muscles being out of practice. That small act really wasn't asking too much and when John had collapsed forward Sherlock had stayed where he was. The man didn't need to be coddled, just as he said. He just needed practice and.... another distraction.. After a few minutes John had gotten his breathing back and stood up, shaking out his wings as he kept his eyes averted from Sherlock. "Right... well... if you're done making a fool out of me..," he grumbled, looking up at the detective and without much preamble... finding a fist connecting with the side of his face.

John tumbled back a bit and looked over in dismay at Sherlock standing there, eyes livid and arms raised ready to fight. "What the bloody hell was that for?!" John bellowed, holding his jaw before bringing his hand down to look to see if there was blood or possibly bone bits now crumbling from his face. He was met with Sherlock charging him again and bearing him to the ground in some sort of pseudo- wrestling match.

"It's all your fault that we lost Gombeen! It's all your fault that my life has been disrupted and made worse with your constant cleaning and wailing at night! What good are you?!" Sherlock shouted at the momentarily shocked army doctor who soon was just as livid and pissed off as the man trying to apparently strangle him. "What about you?!" John roared back, flipping them around and over across the rooftop as he tried to get the upper hand and sent a rather hard hit toward the mans lower ribs. "All the time with your awful violin screeching at whatever hour you want and the mess and the fucking body parts in the fridge. I think I ate a human liver the other day!" he growled out as he finally stood up and went to move away from Sherlock and toward the fire escape before he actually killed the man.

He suddenly felt a hard shove against his back that had him stumbling forward, turning around with murder in his eyes. "Then you're obviously not a very good doctor if you can't tell the difference in what you stuff in your gob," the detective spat, a malicious smile on his face as John stood up. "Good thing you were invalided home. Who knows what may have become of those few that you tried to save." And that was the last straw. John tore off toward the detective who turned tail just as quickly, taking a quick leap off the precipice of the building and soon being followed into the air by a very angry, vary capable flyer.

So far Sherlocks plan had been working out as he'd hoped. It had gone something like this:

_Step A. Distract John with vocal and physical abuse_  
Step B. Take a leap of faith and see if John follows, if so continue to Step C if not go back to Step A.  
Step C. This step is still under construction... Good Luck and God speed. 

Sadly, Sherlock hadn't thought that far ahead. He had managed the distraction that would enable John to focus on one thing and not the other, thus allowing him to focus on anger rather than his inability to fly from pain. Now... now he was in a lot of trouble and he needed to figure out just what to do. There was a thoroughly pissed off doctor cursing at him and flying faster than Sherlock had planned and before he knew it he was being bore down upon. It appeared that the military had done very well in their flight combat training as Sherlock soon found John flying underneath and twisting mid-air so that on the full spin his fist connected with the mans lower jaw, splitting his lip and making him forget who he was for a moment. Right... he needed to land quickly and he dove off to the left, trying to descend toward the ground and a rather lovely park. John quickly followed like a bullet, wrapping his arms around the mans middle before touch down and causing them both to roll for a bit until John had pinned Sherlock and the detective lay flailing to try and get away before another hit was landed. There really was nothing for it in the end and he sent another fist flying at John that connected with the mans eyebrow. This stunned him for a bit and allowed Sherlock to push the man up and off of him before quickly pinning him.

John lay there trying to free his arms and get at Sherlock as the detective tried to catch his breath and speak all at the same time. "John! John... I didn't... it wasn't.... you flew...," he gasped out, John still fighting to get up. "So what you lanky fuck?! Get off of me so I can kill you!" This seemed like a rather bad idea to Sherlock who kept the ex-soldier pinned for the moment. "No... listen. You flew... you just needed some... distraction!" This caused John to pause in his struggles, laying there with his chest heaving and looking up at his flatmate. Seeing as John had paused long enough for him to get his breath back, Sherlock quickly tried to explain. "It was all in your mind, John. Just like your leg. You thought you couldn't fly and the slight pain from a lack of practice only added to that belief. I didn't mean what I said. It was all to distract you so you could focus on something other than your wing. You are a capable doctor, a capable flier and no... you haven't disrupted my life," he said before finally finding it too difficult to breath and moving to collapse next to John. "And no... you didn't eat a.... a human liver. It was... beef," he panted, closing his eyes and wondering if his ribs were bruised and if his lungs would ever work properly again.

"So... this... this was all to distract me?" John said breathlessly, a black eye most definitely starting to appear as he lay out on the grassy knoll in some park somewhere that he didn't care about right now. Sherlock nodded, smiling despite the obviously split lip and giving a breathless chuckle. "And it worked.... rather brilliantly I might add." John rolled his eyes at that. "Oh yes... real brilliant. I can't feel my face and you apparently can't breath," John said with a little huffed giggle.

Sherlock chuckled breathlessly as well, taking a few more minutes to compose himself before sitting up and looking out at the park. "Well... you flew. I consider that a... job well done, regardless of... of the route we had to take to get there," he said with a smile over at the man. John sat up as well, looking over at Sherlock and shaking his head, immediately regretting it and laying back down. "Oh god," he groaned as the world spun. After a few minutes he opened his eyes again and looked over at his flatmate. "You're a good friend, Sherlock. You're a prat, arrogant and most definitely mad.... but you're a good friend," he said with a little nod. Sherlock couldn't help smiling at that and looked over at his flatmate. "Thank you, John. And for what it's worth... so are you."

"But I swear if you ever do that again I will destroy every experiment you have... starting with that fifth mould sample in the kitchen. Don't think I haven't noticed it you, prat."  
"Nothing gets by you does it?"  
"Not in the slightest."


	6. The Bored Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are many lengths that a man will go to, to get his flatmate and partner to stop saying 'Bored' on every third word...

"Bored.... bored.... booooored.... _booOOoooOOOoooored!_ "  
"I think that word has actually just lost all meaning to me... thanks for that."

John was looking over at the detective from his armchair, the man laying slightly less then comfortably on the sofa. There was every chance in the world that he was comfortable, but he was sort of just drooped over the far arm of the thing, legs on the ground, arms flung out over the cushions and face smushed into one of the said cushions and making every syllable he uttered almost unintelligible... apart from one...

"BORED! BOREDITTY BOREDY BORED!"  
"Nope... _now_ its lost all meaning," John said as he finally put the medical journal he'd been looking over down on the side table and turned his full and undivided attention to his partner. "You do realize that there are actually cases for you to do. What about... hang on..." He moved to pick up his laptop and after chicken pecking his way through his password and login he finally made it to the consulting detectives page. "What about that woman from Cornwall who says that there has been a man shadowing her house for the past month?"

"Checked with local police... it's the new postman and she doesn't believe anyone. Figured it out yesterday by telephone. Bored!"

John gave a little nod at that and scrolled down the page a bit. "Um... there's a man who has just recently reported his wife missing? Says that she went out for drinks with some friends, she never came back, no trace of her since and no contact made by any person or persons as to her whereabouts? That's interesting, right? All... mysterious," John said in the same tone of voice one would use when trying to get a dog excited about going to the park.

"Scroll down a bit more. He found her and her friends passed out in the back garden three hours later. Oh and John? Bored!"

"Right," John muttered to himself as he turned back to his mission of finding anything to help Sherlock from rebelling against the stagnation of his mind. The last time it had happened he'd spent three hours harpooning the flat until eventually he got the recently vacated armchair of one army doctor and was forced to sleep on the couch for three days. And what a dark three days they were indeed. Never harpoon an army doctors chair.... _never_.

"Woman from Devonshire who lost her son?"  
"It's a dog... she calls him Herson, but accidentally added a space. Bored!"  
"Family missing?"  
"Vacation. Grandparents didn't know. Bored!"  
"What about..."  
"BORED!"

"FINE! Fine... I get it you're bored!" John shot back, knowing he shouldn't be getting angry, but really there were only so many times a person could hear the word 'bored' without attempting murder themselves. As Sherlock continued to grumble out the bloody word into the pillow, John closed the laptop and leaned back to look up at the ceiling, scowling as he saw the two harpoon holes that had recently been added. He needed to figure out something... find a case for the man to solve. Then an idea came to mind. It was childish and the detective probably wouldn't find it amusing in the slightest, but it was worth a shot. And anyway it allowed John to leave the room for a moment. The detective not noticing a thing as he lost himself in the deep dark depression that is a caseless day.

It was five minutes later when he heard the text tone of his phone. "John... get that for me and tell me it's not Mrs. Hudson sending more emoticons," Sherlock grumbled into the pillow. However, he didn't hear John get up and his brow furrowed. Was the man ignoring him now? "John? John are you...," but he was cut off as he looked up and noticed that the man wasn't in the living room. Standing up he peeked into the kitchen and also saw no trace of John. Had he really made John angry? Looking back over at his phone that was on the coffee table he moved over to it and opened up the recently sent text.

**Find me.- JW**

Sherlock looked at the text for a moment and scowled. "What?" he exclaimed, not understanding. It was only a few seconds later that another text came through.

**What part of 'find me' are you not comprehending?- JW**

A little quirk of Sherlocks lips was what he got in return before he put his 'bored' face back on.

_Well... I know you're still in the flat thanks to that last text. So this should be easy.- SH_

He quickly sent it back and waited for the little 'beep' that was a tell tale sign of Johns phone, but none came. "Well played, John," he called out to the flat.

**Thank you.- JW**

That got an actual chuckle out of the detective and he decided that at least he wouldn't be bored for about two minutes. "Prepare to be found, John!" he called back only to receive another message in reply.

**Bring it, sweet cheeks.- JW**

And with that the hunt commenced. If John could hear him then he was most definitely still in the flat so that took the roof and the fire escape off of his list and Mrs. Hudsons apartment and 221C were most definitely too far for John to actually be able to hear him so they got taken off the list as well. This was honestly going to be too easy.

He decided that first things were first and went about stalking the living room in case John had decided to simply hide behind his chair, which he wouldn't put past the man. However, it appeared that his sweetheart had decided against the obvious and after a quick search no army doctors were found in the vicinity. Next up was the kitchen which had Sherlock ducking under the table and opening up some of the larger bottom cupboards just in case John had figured out how to fit himself into one. He was so caught up in the search that he ended up knocking his head into the counter when he received a new text.

**What's taking so long? Having trouble, bugaboo?- JW**

Oh... so the man was resorting to horrible endearments now.

_You realize that now when I find you I'm going to make you pay for that.- SH_

**You can't tell right now, but I'm rolling my eyes in complete disbelief, schmoopy bear.- JW**

Sherlock actually cringed at the name and was now more resolute than ever to find his annoying partner. Once a thorough sweep of the kitchen had brought up all of nothing he moved on to the bathroom. Upon entering he saw that the curtain was closed over the shower and a wicked smile appeared on his face. Silently he snuck up to it, refusing to alert the man to his dastardly plan. As soon as he was close enough he stuck his hand in near the tap and turned on the shower head to spray cold water over any small, annoying occupants. Sadly.... nothing happened and upon pulling back the shower curtain he found no soggy, scowling Johns much to his dismay. Then came the arrival of another text.

**Did you decide to give up and take a shower instead, Tootsie?- JW**

_You are in so much trouble when I find you.- SH_

**'If'... 'If' you find me, munchi-wunchkin.- JW**

That last one had to be the worst endearment so far and it sickened Sherlock to know that these were all coming so easily to John. He'd have to get the man to stop watching so much crap telly before his mind completely turned to mush. But, right now his mission was clear... find John, make him pay. Considering there were honestly no more hiding spots in the bathroom there were only two places left. Their bedroom and Johns old one.

_I'm getting closer, John. Can you feel that? It's you're impending doom!- SH_

**So that's what that feeling is... oh... oh wait no, no it's still disbelief, Floofykins.- JW**

"He is such an arse," Sherlock grumbled to himself as he moved into the bedroom. He refused to let John stay so smug and quickly dropped in a pseudo-push-up to check under the bed without success of finding the man. There was also no trace of him behind the door, in the closet or crouched down next to the dresser. "No matter. There's only one place left," he muttered to himself as he moved out of the room, up the hallway and toward Johns old room just as another text came in.

**My god, has it been a year yet? Do you even still remember what I look like, Pooky-woo?- JW**

Sherlock gave a little grumble at that and charged up the last three steps before quickly bursting into Johns room... and found no smug ex-soldier standing there. This was getting ridiculous, but no matter. His game was at an end... just as... just as soon as he... nope, not under the bed... as soon as he found John he'd... and not in the closet. That was when Sherlocks mind sort of... went blank. Where the hell was he?!

_Are you cheating? Did you suddenly turn invisible?- SH_

**I never cheat, nor am I invisible... perhaps you're losing your touch, Curly-cutie.- JW**

_That's just awful, John. I think I actually have a stomach ache from that nonsense.- SH_

**Why, whatever do you mean, Snuffle-cakes?- JW**

_That! Those awful endearments!- SH_

**Still don't know what you're talking about, Plumply-pie.- JW**

_Now you're just using words that describe food.- SH_

**I've no idea what you're talking about, Butter nugget.- JW**

_I am not a butter nugget! If anyone in this household is a buttery nugget it's you!- SH_

Sherlock had just made his way down from Johns old room, this little text war waging between them, and was on the first landing when he heard it. It was right after he sent his last text.... there was definitely the unmistakable sound of a giggle. It didn't originate from the flat, but definitely came from downstairs. Without much preamble, Sherlock began to make his way down toward the front door, eyes scanning and looking for anything suspicious. Turning left at the bottom of the steps and looking around the hall he soon spotted something that brought a wide smile to his face. Apparently there was a little cupboard under the stairs, and if he wasn't much mistaken (this time) John was hiding in it. Leaning against the wall he got out his phone and sent a text.

_Found you, Floppy pants.- SH_

It only took a few seconds later before a snort followed by ridiculous giggling could be heard from behind the little door. Inside there was definitely a slightly contortioned John, but he couldn't help sending one more text.

**Floppy pants? It's sounds like some sort of underwear disease, Cookiewumple.- JW**

"I swear I'm going to lock you in there," Sherlock called out and soon there was much scattering and clacking as John knew that the threat was very, very real. It wasn't long before he emerged, a few cobwebs in his hair and a wide smile on his face. "Am I still in trouble?" he asked with a light smile as Sherlock pushed himself off of the wall and moved over to brush the cobwebs away from his darlings brow. "More than you know, sweetheart. But I think it can wait for now," the detective said gently, moving to press a soft kiss to the mans lips.

John relaxed a bit at that and gave the man a soft kiss in return, his eyes sparkling a bit as he pulled away. "Are you still bored?"

"Not so much anymore. How can I be bored when I have a menace like you making me run all over the flat?" Sherlock asked with a quirked eyebrow.

"You know you enjoyed it. But... to make sure you don't fall back into those doldrums of yours. I just have one thing to say....," John murmured, rubbing his hands over the detectives arms as he moved closer. "Tag! You're it, schmoopy-toodles!" With that he lightly tagged the mans chest before turning tail and racing back up the steps, a scowling detective close on his heels.

"Where are you coming up with these... honestly?!?"


	7. The Casualties of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes height difference can be a fun thing.... sometimes it means war!

There was no hiding the fact that John H. Watson... the strong willed, steady aimed, warmhearted army doctor... was vertically challenged. He could still fly, still run, jump, play just as everyone else did... but they only ever seemed to focus on the fact that he was without a doubt the shortest kid in school. He'd heard it all as a child 'half pint', 'smurf', 'hobbit', 'leprechaun', 'shortstop' and a whole litany of other things that he tried to forget about. There had been one girl who was taller then him (not that he was surprised) who told him that he was like a flower while she was like a weed. He was taking time to grow while she had merely sprung up. As sweet as that was to hear the soothing words lasted until recess when the other kids had found out that John was now a flower. Primary school can be a viscous, viscous place...

Sadly the short comments didn't stop once he left primary or went into secondary or even when he had been shipped off to Afghanistan fighting for Queen and country. The only thing that had changed about all of this was how John handled it. No longer did he find it disheartening or mean spirited (usually), but now he accepted it and actually didn't mind his height. He was better at hide and seek, he was able to fit into any vehicle no matter where he was destined to sit and he could get into a crowded bar regardless of how many people were already in it. Being smaller than everyone was perfectly fine. However... now that he was in a relationship and living with the unjolliest green giant of them all he found that being small could really, really, really be annoying.

It all started with a tin of tea. They had just gotten back from St. Barts, Sherlock doing research on how long it took to break a femur with a cane, and he had decided that they could both do with a nice brew. The kettle was put on, the tea mugs were set out and now all that was needed was the tea. He tried to remember where he had put it when the memory came rushing back that Sherlock had helped (been bullied into) put groceries away and that must mean.... yep. Opening the cupboard he found the tea placed up on the topmost shelf and gave a little grumble. He couldn't exactly fly up and get it and he refused to ask for help so in the end he attempted to merely reach it with his finger tips while standing on point like a ballerina. Did it work? No. Did a passing consulting detective see this and think that it was a combination of hilarious and endearing? Yes. And thus started one of the worst weeks in Johns life since school.

After Sherlock had been kind enough to offer to get the tea down for the man the day had continued rather smoothly. Until bedtime. John couldn't find his toothbrush and had looked all over for it until he opened the cupboard and noticed it resting on the top shelf. Now, he realized that perhaps it had gotten in the way of Sherlocks... cleaning? Experimenting? Whatever... and perhaps he'd just put it up there. But he doubted that with the force of a thousand suns, but decided not to comment. He merely climbed up onto the counter and got it down before going about the rest of the night. That was the second attack... then came so, so many more such as....

Getting Sherlock a beaker at St. Barts.... located on one of the upper shelves in the back... Sherlock ended up helping him...  
Locating his favourite jumper.... located in the laundry room on the overhanging shelf where they kept rags.... Sherlock happened to 'appear' just in time to get it down...  
Wanting jam for his toast for a quick meal after a hard day....

"What. The. Fuck." he growled out as he located said jam, merrily sitting up on the top shelf where he _knew_ he hadn't put it this morning. Steely eyes turned toward the living room to his mate pretending to be clicking away on his (Johns) laptop as he sat in his chair... the perfect viewing spot. The one thing you should never, ever do is start a war with an ex-soldier. If this was how Sherlock wanted to play his little game then John was ready to play as well.

The following morning Sherlock was the first to rise after a rather sweet John had enticed him to cuddle up with him for the night instead of working on some vegetation samples from a low profile case he was working to stave off boredom. This was just an added bonus to the wonderful week he'd been having. Sherlock had most definitely been attempting to put most, if not all, of Johns things up higher so that he could watch his darling mate attempt to get it before swooping in and helping him. The thought still put a smile on his face as he blinked his eyes open and noticed that John had already gotten up. Did he have work today? Probably. Sherlock couldn't always remember and especially not after a bit of sleep. He got up, stretching and noting that it was still dark grey outside and decided to make himself some tea. He wandered into the hallway, rubbing a hand over his face to clear away the bleariness when he felt the sharp thwak of something against his shin and went tumbling over onto the floor.

First thought was an assassin, second thought was his leg was broken.... third thought was wondering if crying really would help with the pain. Sitting up on his rump he looked over at the mass on the floor with a mixture of hate and curiosity. Reaching up he was able to turn on the hall light, unsure if he could stand at the moment, and found his microscope on the ground. "What in the world?" he murmured to himself as he got up with a little hiss and moved to pick up the object. How the hell had that gotten there? Surely he hadn't been sleep walking and just put it there. Well... anything was a possibility really, but he decided that perhaps it was just an odd circumstance. Hey, odder things had happened to him before. Moving into the kitchen he went about trying to make tea, but unable to locate the tea tin he had a sneaking suspicion and opened the bottommost drawer in their counter. Sure enough there it was. "Oh no...," he whispered to himself. And thus started a very bad week for the detective. Some of the things that followed were....

Needing to find his phone... found it under the sofa...  
Violin? Located in the cupboard under the stairs near the front door...  
Hairbrush? Cupboard under the sink...  
Scarf? Very, very bottom of a rather vile smile laundry hamper...

There came a point where Sherlock started to get paranoid about his belongings. One day he'd simply wanted to change into a pair of clean pants after a shower and found them in the bottom drawer of his dresser! Technically he was the one who had put them there, but it didn't stop his heart from palpitating for a moment when he thought John had struck again. It was also the moment he realized that he needed to end this.

John for his part had been having the greatest week of his life. Sherlock was getting a taste of his own medicine, of sorts, and he got to watch the man slowly spiral into madness when he wasn't sure where or what would be struck next. He chuckled to himself as the scarf one had been his favourite... the look on Sherlock face absolutely priceless. But as he sat at the kitchen table looking over the paper for the morning he noticed something waving in his peripheral vision. It was a pair of white pants with bumble bees on them attached to the end of an umbrella. A little giggle escaped the man and he tried to cover his mouth with his hand before anymore did. A sheepish looking Sherlock was soon to follow and he stood awkwardly in the doorway.

"Truce... mercy... sorry," he said, looking down at the floor. "Maybe, I'm unmerciful... why are you sorry?" John answered, waiting to hear this all out with a look of bemusement. With a sigh Sherlock looked up and nodded to the shelves. "I'm sorry for putting your things up high so that you couldn't reach them. It wasn't nice and I shouldn't have done it," he said, almost sounding like a child giving an apology speech... adorable bastard.

"Go on....," John said, smile growing as he turned himself more toward the man. Sherlock cleared his throat. "I didn't think it was actually bothersome. I did it because... I liked helping you with little things like that.... and also watching you was funny," he said with a little chuckle before sombering and knowing he should really not tease right now.

Shaking his head, John got up and moved to stand in front of his darling and leaned up on tiptoe to press a soft kiss to his lips. "You are an utter and complete arse for doing what you did... but sadly you're also adorable and surrendered with bee pants so I actually have no choice but to accept your apology," he said with a soft smile, Sherlocks own smile returning as he moved to press a light kiss to Johns lips as well. "So I'm forgiven?" he asked with a puppy dog expression that John rolled his eyes fondly at. "Yes, you bastard... you're forgiven."

"Good... I promise never to do that again."  
"..... you're still going to do it again aren't you?"  
"You know I'm not very good with promise-OW!"

And now it was Johns turn to do an experiment to see if a femur could be broken with an umbrella that had a pair of bumble bee pants speared on at the end.


	8. The Pumpkin King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's in the Halloween spirit, someone hid with Billy and someone may or may not be addicted to gummy bears.

"What... in the name... of all that is good... has happened to our living room?" John said quietly, his eyes wide as he glanced around 221B. This morning everything had been as it should be before he headed off for another day at the clinic. There were newspapers everywhere, the experiments had been wrangled into one corner of the kitchen leaving the rest open for people who enjoyed breakfast to actually get some and everything was messy, homey and cozy. But now... now it wasn't so. There were cobwebs _everywhere_ , a skeleton that John had never seen before propped up in the corner and test tubes filled with things that were bubbling that looked like they shouldn't be bubbling at all. There was only one person in the house that could cause so much chaos in so short amount of time. "Sherlock!"

"What?" came a slightly muffled cry from downstairs and soon the door to Mrs. Hudsons flat was closing and the slightly bounding step of his mate could be heard coming up the stairs. "What's wrong?" he asked, looking over John and noting that the man appeared to be in some sort of shock.

John swept his arm out to the flat much like a game show hostess showing off the vast array of prizes that could be won. Sherlock looked over the flat than back to John... then back to the flat. "There's.... space?" Sherlock said, making the same sweeping motion with his arm to imitate his partner. John scowled and shook his head. "No! No... why does our flat look like a medieval dungeon?' he asked, to which Sherlock instantly perked up. "It's almost Halloween, John.... didn't you know?" he said stepping into the flat and taking in his days work thus far.

At the answer John stood speechless for a few seconds before stepping in carefully and wondering if he'd entered a sort of twilight zone. "I... I'm well aware that it's almost Halloween. I'm just surprised that you are," he said carefully, waiting for some sort of joke to happen or for him to suddenly wake up from to an unfestive and normal (in his eyes normal) mate. Sherlock chuckled and turned around to look at John, stepping closer and resting his hands on his shoulders. "I am more than aware of the fact that it's almost Halloween. You of all people should have guessed it would be my favourite holiday."

"I didn't consider... it's just a little surprise... I don't... who is that?" he asked, finally latching onto one tangible question that he thought would help get the ball rolling on more explanations. Sherlocks brow furrowed and he turned his head to see the skeleton in the corner. "You know who that is, John," he said with a little chuckle, turning back to his mate. "Oh my God... you killed Anderson didn't you?" John said as he glanced back over to the skeleton. Sherlocks nose crinkled and he shook his head. "No... no it's not Anderson. Notice the lack of overbite and how the shoulders aren't sagged down with the weight of stupidity that hangs around that man. No... it's Billy!" he said happily, standing next to the skeleton and wrapping his arm around it, wings held up proudly behind him at the display.

John wasn't entirely sure what to say to that. His eyes glanced at the mantle and noticed a lack of skull and once he looked back at the... face?... of the skeleton he realized that it really was their cerebral flatmate. "You... so it's not just a skull... you have this mans entire body... and you put him out for decoration on Halloween?" John said as calmly as one can after realizing that they've been living in a house where someones bones have been stashed away. There are limits to the eccentricities that even he can take. "It was his dying wish... to either be donated to science or to be decor for the flat," Sherlock said with a somber expression, looking over at Billy and patting his bony chest. John was about to say something when the man started laughing. "I'm only joking, John. Well... sort of. This really is Billy, but no he didn't want to be the house decor. I just thought I'd give him a chance to stretch his legs a bit."

There would never, ever, forever, never be a day when John would understand Sherlocks sense of humour... and if one day it should happen he would fear for his sanity. "Right... okay... so... so where did you keep his body?" he asked, hoping and praying it wasn't anywhere that he cherished because god knows he wouldn't be able to go back there. At the question, Sherlocks smile grew. "Remember a few weeks ago when you decided to play hide and seek?" Johns eyes widened and he shook his head as Sherlocks smile grew to resemble that of a Cheshire cat.

"I wasn't...."  
"You were."  
"You're lying!"  
"I'm really not, floppy pants."  
"I WAS HIDING WITH A DEAD MAN?!"

In answer Sherlock held onto the back of Billys skull and made it nod. John made a slightly strangled noise and shivered, wiping his hands down his arms and torso as if to rid them of the very idea that he'd crammed himself into a space occupied by a skeleton. Sherlock watched all of this with the most delighted expression on his face and after a few minutes he couldn't help chuckling at his mates plight. "If it helps he's clean and was happy for the company," he teased to which John merely scowled at the man and finally shrugged out of his coat, hanging it up and toeing off his shoes. "Well... this has been quite informative. I think I need a nice cuppa... and then possibly a very, very, very hot shower," he said, turning to head into the kitchen only to be met with two very nicely sized pumpkins, a vast array of knives, bowls of every size and newspapers spread out across the table.

"I thought you'd like to help me?" Sherlock said softly, walking up behind his mate and wrapping his arms around his middle. While the cobwebs and bubbling experiments had surprised him and he was still in mild shock over the skeleton, the idea that his mate wanted to carve pumpkins with him honestly melted his heart a little bit and he couldn't suppress a rather fond smile as he looked over how the man had already gotten everything out. "I would be very happy to... so long as I don't have to go near Billy for the rest of the time his body is visiting," he said with a little shiver to which Sherlock laughed. "You're a doctor, John. Don't you have one of these in every room of the clinic?" John paused and looked over his shoulder slightly as if he could see his mate. "I'm not sure what doctors office you were visiting, but no... they aren't in every room and while I am a doctor it's one thing to see this in an anatomy class and a completely other thing to be living with one," he explained.

"And playing with it," Sherlock teased with a chuckle as John lightly elbowed him in the stomach. "So... care to carve a pumpkin with me?" he asked gently as he continued to hold John close, hoping the attention would take away from the shock of hiding in a cupboard with a skeleton.

After a few seconds of thought John sighed with a soft smile and nodded. "Yes, alright... we can carve pumpkins. Then maybe you can explain to me why you love Halloween so much," he said as he moved to step away. Sherlock followed his mate into the kitchen with a beaming smile and shrugged. "What's not to like? There are mysteries, body parts, increase in crimes, you get to scare people and of course... candy."

That made John pause and he turned around. "That's why you like this holiday so much. You get that sugar fix for that sweet tooth of yours," he said with a soft smile to which Sherlock looked down at the floor and nodded. "To be fair it's only a minor weakness. I can go without sweets if I have to," Sherlock said trying to defend himself. John laughed and moved to roll up the sleeves of his jumper. "I know you can, love. However, I also know that all you have to do is hear the crinkle of a bag of gummy bears and you come running like a cat who hears a tin of food being opened," he teased with a bright smile. It had been an accident when he'd found out about this certain weakness. He'd stopped at one of the shops on the way back from the clinic and had gotten himself a little bag of gummy bears just to treat himself a little. Unfortunately, once he'd gotten back to the flat and moved to take off his jacket the bag had crinkled in his side pocket and he had practically been rugby tackled from behind by a consulting detective hell bent on a few chewy treats.

"When you live in a house with Mycroft you are raised to react quickly when you hear the sound of any sort of treat lest you end up with nothing but sadness," he said with a little nod, moving over to the bigger of the pumpkins and already laying claim to it. This was perfectly acceptable to John as he really didn't want to have to stand on a chair like a child so that he could clean out and carve the thing. "That's completely understandable. I myself always had to fight Harry for my Halloween candy. She'd usually just bully her way into leaving me with the undesirables," he said with a little huff, remembering many a bygone year when he was little and forced to hand over his pixie stix and Kit Kats all because Harry wanted them.

Sherlock smiled over at his mate as he started to carve a circle into the top of his pumpkin, setting the lid aside as he moved to pull out the guts and seeds and put them into a bowl. As Sherlock started to carve into his pumpkin, John followed suit... moving to carve a lid before turning to the labour intensive part of scooping out the insides of his soon to be masterpiece. "So... what did you dress up as for Halloween as a kid?" John asked after a moment of silence. Sherlock looked up at the question, pausing in his own cleaning to think over it. "From what I remember there was one year where I was Dr. Frankenstein... another year I was Frankensteins monster... the rest were the usual, but those two had to be my favourite. What about you?" he asked as he scooped out the last of the pumpkin guts before stepping back and appraising the pumpkin as though he were a greek sculpture ready to capture the next masterpiece in vegetable.

John smiled at the characters Sherlock had decided to be before thinking over his own. "Mine weren't very imaginative really. Once year I was a doctor, then a soldier... oh! There was one year where Mum thought that Harry and me should dress up in a sort of theme. What ended was that she got to be Alice from Wonderland and I was... the dormouse," he said with a faint blush to his cheeks. As soon as Sherlock heard that he started laughing. "Please tell me there are pictures," he said with a bright smile as John blushed all the more and worked to get out the last of the pumpkin. "There were... not that I'll ever let _you_ see them," he grumbled, making Sherlock laugh again. It wasn't long before both pumpkins were clean and clear and John moved to pick up a smaller knife and started to carve in a regular triangular eye.

"What are you doing?" came a deep rumbled voice right by his ear, making John squeak and jump slightly. "What the bloody hell do you think _you're_ doing?!" he asked, holding the area over his heart. Sherlock gave a little huff. "Merely checking out the competition. Seems that you're going for the usual... the obvious. Mine will definitely be better," he said with a little nod as he stepped over to his own pumpkin, turning it slightly from Johns view as he picked up what looked like a vegetable peeler and started to shave away a few bits off of the outside of the gourd. All John could really do was stand there for a moment before shaking his head.

"This isn't a competition, Sherlock."  
"Yes it is."  
"No it isn't and even if it were how do you know you'd win?"  
"Because you're boring."  
"What?!"  
"You're doing a classic jack-o-lantern. I expected better from you."  
"It's just pumpkin carving!"  
"Doesn't mean you should do it boringly... now shush I'm working."  
"No.. you're annoying."  
"That too, but it's better than being boring... and a loser."

That was the last straw in Johns opinion. "Alright, that's it. I'm going to carve the most perfect pumpkin you've ever seen. Then we'll see whose the... pumpkin king," he said as he went back to work, missing the way Sherlock glanced up to offer a wider smile before going back to work. Nothing could get John more motivated than a challenge and a bit of annoying.

This little battle of carvers skills lasted all of two hours, each man working to the best of his abilities to create something that would be completely out of the norm and as interesting as possible. Standing back from his pumpkin, a little bit of orange over one eyebrow where he had rubbed his wrist on it, John looked over his masterpiece and smiled brightly... there was no way Sherlocks could be better. He looked over at the detective, the mans glasz eyes concentrated on the task at hand... pumpkin seeds in his hair from when John had taken a break and tried to break the mans concentration with some annoyances of his own... it hadn't worked. It was a few more minutes before Sherlock stood back and gave a satisfied hum.

"There we are. A true work of art... unlike whatever monstrosity you made," he said with a smug smile over to his mate. Instead of getting flustered, John merely huffed a little laugh. "We'll see about that. Ready to show?" he asked, Sherlocks smiled widening as he saw that John really had gotten into the spirit of this little match. "After you, Doctor Watson."

John gave a little nod and spun his pumpkin around to show his artistic brilliance. It was a rather maniacal face... the eyes still carved into slightly more slanted triangle with a wide circle nose that was supposed to be like that of a clowns. The mouth was jaded with many sharp, pumpkiny teeth and hanging out of said mouth was some of the guts from before. "See? He's a pumpkin... who eats pumpkins!" John said rather proudly, scratching the tip of his nose and getting a bit more orange on his face. "Now go on... show me what you've done then."

After appraising Johns pumpkin Sherlock gave a little nod and spun his own pumpkin around and it was... amazing. He'd made it look as if there was a face exploding out of the pumpkin, shards of the outer, darker pieces scurried in to give it that effect. The face itself was one of anguish and looked like it was screaming and terrified. Johns jaw was actually hanging open, staring at art that was in a pumpkin.

"So... what do you think?" Sherlock asked, looking over the thing and seeming to still be critical of it. John nodded, coming back to himself and looking at Sherlock. "It's... it's perfect. It's... I just never thought you were a pumpkin sculpture person... type person," he rambled slightly to which Sherlock chuckled. After a moment John gave a little huff of laughter as he came back to himself and shook his head. "Alright... alright, fine. You're the pumpkin king. You can decorate and carve with the best of them," John said softly, deciding he could at least give the man this. As soon as Sherlock heard that he couldn't have smiled wider and moved over to John, wrapping and arm around him and ruffling his curls to shower the man in the vast amount of pumpkin seeds he'd thrown into them only a few minutes ago.

John chuckled and moved to hug Sherlock around the middle, shaking his head and trying to avoid the barrage of seeds. "Well... now that the house is decorated and the pumpkins are carved I guess that means all that's left to do is find Halloween costumes and go to Lestrades party that he's invited us to," he said with a wicked little smile as he turned to see Sherlocks face blanch.

"I'm not going."  
"Yes you are."  
"And who's going to make me?"  
"I am because you let me hide in a cupboard with a SKELETON!"  
".... fine... but I get to pick out the costumes."  
"I don't think so, Pumpkin King... I've already figured out what we'll be."

Sherlock looked over at his mate with a sense of worry and dread building up in his chest. Suddenly he wasn't so sure if Halloween was his favourite holiday anymore.


	9. The Pumpkin King pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the day of Lestrades Halloween party and everyone has been invited.... including a very happy John and a very grumbly Sherlock.

"Sherlock? Come on! We've only got a half hour before we have to go," John called through the bedroom door... the locked bedroom door... the locked bedroom door of which his mate was on the other side of throwing a magnificent strop.

"I'm _not_ going like this, John! Why did I agree to this? I look absolutely ridiculous!" came the slightly muffled reply. He was hiding under the covers then... wonderful. John shook his head, but he couldn't find it in himself to be angry at the consulting detective. Quite on the contrary in fact. This was one of the most amusing things he'd forced upon the man in a very, very, very long time. Not to mention Sherlock had let him hide in a cupboard with a skeleton so the git deserved this.

"Come on, darling. What happened to that Halloween spirit of yours?" he called through the door, a wide smile on his face even as he tried to sound caring and concerned. Well, he was always caring and concerned when it came to Sherlock, but that didn't mean that he couldn't annoy the hell out of the man.

A deep grumble escaped from the other side of the door. "Why couldn't I have been the dragon? Then you could've been the... the... troll, gnome, hopping thing," Sherlock whined like a child. John pressed his forehead to the door and shook his head. "They're called Hobbits, Sherlock... and you couldn't be the dragon because... because it was for your own safety. Imagine if Anderson had seen you in that costume. Your virtue would have been in danger and I couldn't allow that," he teased mercilessly, practically feeling the shudder from his partner in their bedroom.

"That's revolting, John," Sherlock mumbled, visions of Anderson making goo-goo eyes at him causing him to feel slightly ill. "Well why couldn't I have been a pirate? They had an outfit my size and everything!" Sherlock could still see it in his minds eye, the dark purple coloured captains jacket with the brass buttons, khaki trousers and white shirt with the ruffled collar underneath, topped off with a fantastic black pirates hat. Almost all of it had been historically inaccurate, but he was more than willing to look past that just so he could be a pirate for one night.

"It did indeed. It also had a sword and we're going to a party where your brother, Anderson and Donovan are. The chaos that would have ensued would have been staggering," John pointed out, knowing full well that there was a chance that people would have been walking out of the party with battle wounds.

After a few seconds of silence in which Sherlock thought this over he gave a little hum. "You do make an excellent point. Does my costume come with any weapons?" he asked, a slightly hopeful tone in his voice. Hearing it made the army doctor chuckle and he moved to lean back against the wall as he checked his watch. "Your body is your weapon, love. That's what makes your character amazing," he said, trying to instill a sense of awe into the costume he'd chosen for his sweetheart.

"If that were the case than I might as well have been Mycroft. His body is a weapon as well, especially if he sits on you. I still have cracked vertebrae from my childhood," Sherlock shot back through the door, the mental image making John laugh softly. "Listen, love. Your character is brilliant, strong, very handsome and he goes with our theme."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, apparently thinking over what his mate had said before becoming skeptical again. "If he's so great why aren't _you_ in this costume? I could be your character. I've got a robe and everything," he grumbled from his curled up position on the bed.

At the comment John looked down at his own costume. He was in his pyjama's, a towel flung over his shoulder and the book, _"The Hitchhikers Guide to the Universe,"_ waiting for him to pick up on the kitchen table. "You couldn't be Arthur Dent because you've never read the story or seen the film and you wouldn't be able to get his character right," John said with a little chuckle, knowing that it was the worst of defense because...

"That's just stupid, John. I've not seen this film either and yet you are forcing me into it!" came the immediate reply. John sighed and tried to think of something to lure his darling out of the bedroom. After a moment he got an idea and left the hall and moved toward the living room. Sherlock listened to him go, wondering if he'd finally giving up and smiling smugly to himself for winning this. That's when he heard it. The faint crinkle of a bag of Haribo gummy bears coming from the other side of the door. His mate was an awful, manipulative human being. Sherlock immediately sat up and moved toward the door, giving a little whine. On the opposite side of the door, John heard the creak of the bed as Sherlock got up and moved toward him, biting his bottom lip to keep from giggling as he opened the package of gummy bears and heard the distressed noises of his mate on the other side.

"I want some. Get me some."  
"Only if you come out of there."  
"Never."  
"Then you get no gummy bears."  
"What happened to my sweet, loving army doctor?"  
"He found himself running late to a Halloween party due to his stubborn mate."

John crinkled the bag again for good measure and ate a few gummy bears to pass the time. That was when Sherlock finally seemed to waiver. "If... if I come out of here and go to the party.... do I get gummy bears?" came the slightly more willing question. Johns expression softened and he nodded. "Yes. If you come out of there and go to the party with me than I will get you all of the gummy bears your little detective heart can stand."

The door immediately opened and Sherlock made his exit, standing in all his costumed glory as John looked over him with a wide smile and a slightly fluttering heart. Sherlock held out his hand and glanced at the candy and to his palm. "Pay up and we can be on our way."

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lestrades party was actually rather nice. There was music, food, beverages both alcoholic and non, and everyone was dressed up and embracing the Halloween spirit. The costumes ran thusly:

\- Donovan had decided to go as the Queen of Hearts  
\- Dimmock was a vampire and wouldn't stop following Donovan around  
\- Anderson was a zombie  
\- Mycroft, who was currently in the early dating stages with Lestrade, came dressed as James Bond... with an umbrella... okay so he hadn't really dressed up, but when pressed about his clothes he decided to lie  
\- And Lestrade was kitted out in his old Rugby uniform and looking quite nice in Mycrofts opinion

There were also various other witches, ghosts, angels, cats and the like milling about the party and everyone was having a rather wonderful Halloween get together. Then the doorbell rang.

Moving over to answer the door, Lestrade smiled as he saw John standing on the door step in all of his robed out, towel carrying glory. "Arthur Dent, right?" Greg said with a little chuckle to which John smiled all the more. "Yeah... I figured I might go against what everyone thought I would wear and come as something other than a Hobbit," he said to which Gregory laughed before looking behind him. "Is Sherlock coming? Or did he refuse?"

Johns smile increased at that and he turned to look just a bit down the sidewalk to a lone figure hiding in the shadows of the lamp. "Come on then, Sherlock. You promised," John said with fond sternness. An audible sigh could be heard and soon the man was coming into the light and Gregs eyes widened. "Bloody hell... he looks like him don't he?" Greg said with a look to John as Sherlock made his way closer. "He really does. I think i picked our costumes well," John said proudly. It wasn't long before Lestrade was standing back to allow them all inside and that's when attention was turned to the newcomers. There was a momentary pause where everyone looked over the consulting detective and his army doctor, eyes moving back to Sherlock for a second glance.

After a few seconds of quiet someone near the back made the first comment.

"KHAAAAAAAN!" There was a very slight chance that this came from a not very sober vampire hanging near the drinks table.

Instantly the quiet was broken as people started to laugh and John chuckled happily, moving to hold the hand of his very, very confused mate. Sherlock really did look like the bad guy from the new Star Trek film. His hair had been quickly styled by John before they left and his get-up was perfect down to the grey overcoat and the Starfleet emblem on his chest.

Sherlock looked over at his mate a little confused. "Will you please explain to me who I am now?" he asked. John smiled gently and gave the mans hand a little squeeze. "It doesn't matter... lets just have a good time, yeah? I'll even let you psycho-analyze why everyone chose the costumes they did."

And so the night went on without any real hitch. Sherlock decided that Donovans outfit spoke of her unstable temper, Dimmock was a natural leech for talent and thus a vampire, when he saw Andersons outfit he couldn't stop laughing for ten minutes and once his breath was back he could only say 'brainless' before falling into another fit of giggles and having to be walked away by John, Mycrofts outfit.... boring and of course Greg had gone with the rugby outfit to impress Mycroft.

All in all it was a very good Halloween and yes... Sherlock did get all the gummy bears he could eat. He was sick for a week afterwards.

**HAPPY HALLOWEEN!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for costumes came from talking with my friend Alfietimewolf and honestly, it was perfect :)


	10. The Library LIason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, John can't take him anywhere...

"Sherlock?.... Sherlock where the hell are you?!" John whisper-yelled down the row of what looked to be knitting and crafts books. All he wanted to do was get back home, have a nice lie down, maybe eat some of the left over casserole Mrs. Hudson had brought them last night. But no.... his life couldn't be that easy. Instead he was chasing around a man who moved like a shadow in a library as quiet as King Tut's tomb.

Of course the man would be quiet in a library... god forbid he make even the slightest bit of a racket. Maybe if he text him?

**Sherlock, where are you? I'm tired, I'm hungry and I have no qualms about leaving you here.- JW**

He hit send and waited for the familiar ping of the mans phone to go off. None was forthcoming. Either Sherlock had the basic decency to turn his phone onto vibrate when he entered the building or... 

"Damn... no bars," John mumbled to himself as he pulled out his phone and noted the message was still sending. Looking back up he got a stern look from an elderly man shuffling past with a book on Marigolds. He probably came in here with his best friend too and was lost for all of eternity, reading books on flowers to be reminded of the time when he could breathe fresh air and see the world around him... poor devil. Perhaps there was a book on casseroles in here somewhere. 

Johns thoughts were interrupted as he saw out of the corner of his eye a flash of black fabric. He would have cried out 'Ah-ha!' but the fear of Old Man Marigold shuffling back and hitting him with his book for being loud kept him from doing so. Instead he walked a bit quicker toward the 'Non-Fiction and Autobiographies' area, turned the corner and... nothing. Apparently he was starting to see things now... lost in the never ending aisles of books and lost souls. Who knew who else could be wandering around this desolate paper wasteland. 

After skimming the books, for a lack of anything better to do for the moment, John turned down one of the broader aisles and took a moment of pause to try and deduce where his mate was going. Lets see... they were working on a case involving a possible jewel thief and the likelihood that there would be a book on the subject was less that probable in Johns humble opinion. Other than that he couldn't think of what else could be twirling about his darlings mind and decided that he would just have to keep looking down the various aisles until fate smiled upon him and he found his mate. 

John strolled through 'Fictions', jogged through 'Romance' and almost gave up hope in 'Horrors' before taking a moment to himself and charging onward with all the resolve of a military man. 

Upon finishing his investigation of the Historical section and finding no trace of the black winged, pale faced bastard he loved, John decided that there would be absolutely no chance of him leaving here.. ever... never ever forever never. Looking up he noticed a brown-haired girl with glasses typing away on her laptop and wondered if she'd seen anything. Hopefully she was kinder than Old Man Marigold. 

"Um... excuse me?" he whispered, tapping her on the shoulder and instantly causing her to jump as she'd been lost in the world of the paper she was writing. After taking a breath she turned to look at him with a slight blush and little smile. "Can I help you?" she asked, to which John gave a little huff of laughter. "Sorry about that... but I really hope you can. Have you seen a tall, thin man... pale features, black coat, walking around here?" 

"Slenderman?" she asked quizzically, looking over John like he was possibly insane. 

"What? Oh! No, no... though I can see why you would think that. No he has very curly hair, blue scarf and as far as I know doesn't trap people in forests and hunt them. His preferred hunting ground is the library apparently." 

Hearing the added descriptive details the girls eyes showed recognition and she gave a quick nod, pointing down toward the 'Mysteries' section. "He went down there not more than ten minutes ago. If you want I'll keep an eye out for him and point him in your direction if you like?" she offered. 

John smiled and gave a little nod. "That would be very helpful, thank you. Sorry again!" he said as he started to dash off toward the 'Mysteries' section and thankful for the girls help. His brain supplied him with the nickname 'Eagle Eye' for her before he rounded the corner and found, not to his surprise, no one. "Did I even come here with him? Did I hallucinate this trip?" he mumbled to himself and was met with a rather stern 'Shh!' to his left causing him to jump with a squeak. Old Man Marigold was right beside him, glaring at John for making _another_ sound. As the man shuffled off John shook his head and hoped that Eagle Eye girl didn't fall victim to his shushing. 

Right... so... he'd checked every conceivable place that Sherlock would likely go. Where the hell was left? There were one place he knew without an iota of doubt the man wouldn't be, 'Science Fiction', so that left.. 'Childrens'? What in the world would the man be doing there? His mate had gone to far stranger places to get far more random things so the childrens section wasn't that much of shock. 

Sadly the answer to his question of what the man was doing there was... nothing. Nothing because Sherlock wasn't there because he was obviously an imaginary friend of his and had never existed in the first place! With a little huff, John made his way over to a tiny table and set of chairs and took a seat. He leaned forward to rest his head in his arms on the little table... wondering what poor seven year old was going to find his body, probably bludgeoned to death with one of Old Man Marigolds books. 

"I'm amazed security hasn't been called on you. Grown man lurking about the childrens section... bit odd don't you think, John?" came an amused voice from behind him. Lifting his head from the table and turning around in the tiny seat he had taken, John saw his mate standing behind him with three books in his hands. He quickly shot up, knocking over the little chair and moved carefully toward Sherlock, giving his chest a soft poke. Once assured that the man was indeed real he continued to poke him as he berated him with whispers. 

"Where. Have. You. Been?! I've been harassed by Old Man Marigold...,"  
"Mr. Stephens...,"  
"... had to ask directions from Eagle Eye girl...,"  
"Dawn...,"  
"... and not to mention I have been running around like a chicken with my head cut off because you didn't te-... wait... you know their names?" John asked, his rant momentarily halted at the realization that Sherlock took the time to know random strangers names. Sherlock chuckled and gave a little nod. "Yes. Mr. Stephens is the librarian here and is actually quite knowledgeable in his own way about plants and various shrubbery. If I'm ever stuck on any topic, horticulterally speaking, then I know who to go to. As for Dawn... I just know her name because she pointed out where you were and I saw it typed up on her paper," he explained casually. 

John stood there for a moment and nodded slowly. "Oh... well... if I ever come back here and see her again I will make sure to give her my thanks," he said. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at that. "If?" he asked curiously to which John gave him a pointed look. "It's like you don't pay attention to me in the slightest. You just left me for forty-five minutes, running around a library and for what?" 

Sherlock had the decency to give John a sheepish smile before holding out one of the books he'd been carrying. Still not even the slightest bit amused about the events of the day, John moved to take the book from Sherlock a bit roughly and looked at it. His brow furrowed and he cocked his head to the side. "Astronomical Wonders: Constellations and a Beginners Guide to the Stars," he read out the title quietly before looking back at his mate. "Why this?" 

"Because... I want to see the stars how you do and understand them. You seem to enjoy it and... I want to share that," Sherlock explained, actually managing a small blush over his high cheekbones as he spoke. John, for his part, couldn't help a small smile appearing on his face as he heard this and after a moment he moved forward and pressed a kiss to the mans cheek. "That's one of the sweetest things I've ever heard, love. Thank you," he said softly, handing the book back to Sherlock who was looking a bit more pleased with himself. 

"But I swear if you ever leave me wandering aimlessly through a library again I will throttle you."  
"Why didn't you just use the North Star to navigate your way out? Oh... oh that's right because it's not actually helpful."  
"What happened to you wanting to enjoy the stars like I do?"  
"Old habits die hard, John." 


	11. The Sherlockian Sniffles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are many things that John loves about the cold weather... there's one thing that he dreads above all others...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lack of postings! I've had a bit of writers block, but hopefully I'll be able to add a few more stories in the next couple of days :)

There were many things John loved about autumn and the onset of winter. He loved the changing leaves, the crisp air... he even loved the first bits of snowfall that occurred and made him look forward to the holiday season so that he could decorate. His zeal for Christmas decorating was only matched by Sherlocks for Halloween. There was just one... teeny-tiny-little thing that he absolutely loathed, dreaded, prayed against and feared.

_"AAAAHHH-CHOOO!!!"_

The sound echoed throughout their bedroom and cut through the calm, if slightly chilly, morning air. It took about two seconds before John realized what was happening and once he did his heart was thrown into a panic. His slightly sleep filled eyes shot open and he debated whether or not he could get away with just laying there for a few more moments and knowing that no... no he couldn't.

He knew this would happen. Damn it, he knew! Every year without fail since he had moved into 221B, Sherlock had always managed to get sick some way or another and it was always one of the most trying times of Johns life. Now John prided himself on being a good doctor... more than a good doctor actually. But there were limits to even his patience and practice and Sherlock was just the patient to make him want to give up his practice. God, if only his mate would have listened to him! He could see it all plain as day considering it had only been last night.

They were just getting ready to go do a stakeout in front of the Garrideb household in reference to multiple break-ins to one flat that the police had yet to solve when John checked the temperature outside. "You really should wear a hat, Sherlock. Or at least a jumper under that Belstaff of yours," he prompting, not even having to look up to know that he was being given one of the most affronted looked a consulting detective could give.

"Why? So my eyesight can be compromised by the brim of a hat and my movement limited by one of those... cable-knitted restraining jackets? I don't think so, John," Sherlock scoffed as he put on his gloves and tied his scarf around his neck with well practiced ease. All the wall John making obscene gestures behind his back. Honestly, he was entitled to do such things when faced with rude partner.

"I would just like to point out that _I_ am not limited in movement by my jumpers. Nor do they manage to slow me down or put me in any sort of danger when we are out on a case. They are warm, they are helpful, they are even a bit of protection in their own right," he argued back, refusing to give in just yet. Maybe if he pressed just a bit more the man would listen?

John really should have known better than to hold onto that little hope as he heard a soft snort from his darling. "You're quite limited in your movements, John. You can't extend your arms fully above you and you get overheated while running and have to stop far sooner than I do," the detective said as he grabbed his phone and slipped it into his pocket. Meanwhile, John was counting back from ten so as not to bludgeon the man to death with the Union Jack pillow... he had the military training to do it!

"FIne! Don't wear a jumper or a hat... see if I care," he grumbled as he finished checking his gun to make sure it was properly loaded. With that, army doctor and consulting detective headed off into the night to look after Garridebs house. They ended up being out far longer than both would have liked in -7 degree Celsius temperatures for around 4 hours, both men hunched up next to a pair of trash cans that were more than past the time they should have been taken care of. Nothing had happened that night and they had ended up getting back at around 3 a.m., cold, tired, and cranky. Without further ado, both men undressed, shuffled their cold and aching bodies to bed and fell instantly to sleep.

That was where they could be found now. Only it was John who seemed to still be perfectly content, curled up in bed and the lovely warmth that it offered. Sherlock, on the other hand, was a ball of sniffles, soft coughing, something that sounded like a gurgle, and many other noises.

"DJ'oooooohn....," came a croaky and nose blocked cry from the side of the mans bed. John closed his eyes and took a breathe. "Yes, love?" he asked, his own voice slightly gravelly from sleep. "I think.... I'm sick...," Sherlock whined like a child. There was a small part of John that wanted to whimper at hearing this, but he was a doctor and a devoted partner. He would look after his mate regardless of what was to come. Turning over carefully in bed and sitting up slightly he was met with a slightly glassy eyed Sherlock, nose as red as rudolphs and hair in complete disarray. it was almost cute if he didn't know that this vulnerable appearance hid the worst patient the world had ever seen.

"Alright, darling. Lets check your temp...," he said softly, reaching a hand out from the covers and shivering. Pressing the back of his hand against Sherlocks forehead, John gave a little hum and nodded. "Slight temperature, glassy eyes, stuffed nose, and that look in your eye that says that you're about to ask me for things tells me that yes... you are indeed sick, Sherlock," he murmured. Sherlocks eyes narrowed and he attempted a little huff which only got him into a small coughing fit. "I dold you!" he exclaimed once he got his breathing back. By that time, John had already managed to drag himself out of bed, hissing a bit at the cold floor against his feet and moving toward the dresser. Once a nice pair of thick, grey socks had been found he moved to the closet to get out a hunter green jumper, reveling in the warmth it was already helping him maintain.

"Yes, I know you told me. I was just making sure, love," he said softly as he moved to sit on Sherlocks side of the bed, the detective maneuvering to lay on his back and look up at John pathetically. The army doctor couldn't help himself from carding through the mans hair, knowing that as the day progressed the mans behaviour would simply get worse. "I'm going to go make up some coffee for myself and some Lemsip for you and then I'm going to see if we have any cold and flu medicine for you later on," he said softly to which Sherlock crinkled his reddened nose. "Do'h like Lemsip...," he complained... and thus it started.

After managing to get Sherlock up and out of bed, wrapped up in the duvet like a lanky, British burrito, John made sure he was comfortably flopped onto the sofa before moving to the kitchen and getting started on their drinks. He had made the tactical error of putting on the telly and leaving the remote on the side table rather than directly in Sherlocks hand, however. "DJ'ooooooohn! I do'h wanna watch car'doons," he whined. John hit the switch on the coffee machine before setting the kettle on the front burner of the stove to start heating. "You can change it you know," he said as he looked toward the living room, watching as Sherlock made one feeble attempt to stretch out his hand for the thing before shivering, giving up and curling back into his blanket. Shaking his head slightly and running his fingers through his short and mussed hair he moved back into the living room and picked up the clicker. "Alright... just tell me when you like something and I'll stop," he said as he started to click through the channels.

"No... no... no.... he's a moron.... no... no... no... wait!.... wait, no... no... really DJ'ohn is there nothink on?" he grumbled as he nestled deeper into his cocoon of warmth, sniffling and giving a little cough. Sighing, John continued to click through channels even as he looked at Sherlock. "Would you prefer a movie?" he asked curiously to which Sherlock gave a little bit of thought. Pursing his lips together for a moment and humming the man finally made a decision. "Yes," he said with a quick nod that he seemed to regret a moment later. "And what movie would you like?" John asked curiously as he clicked over to the video player and set the remote down. "Anything... I do'h care."

_Lies!_ John thought to himself, but didn't say a word as he moved over to their small stack of movies.

"So... 'James Bon-',"  
"No!"  
"Right. 'Lord of the Rin-',"  
"God, no!"  
"Alright... then 'Saving Private...',"  
"NO! I'm already depressed."  
"God give me strength. Okay! So... what about... oh god, what do we have? Um... 'Muppet Treasure Island'?"  
"......"  
"Sherlock?"

"Yes," Sherlock said with a little smile, snuggling down into the sofa. To be honest, John had bought it as a joke for Sherlock when they'd started dating. The reaction had been normal in that the man scowled and grumbled, but it wasn't until a few days later when John arrived home after working at the clinic that he found Sherlock seated on the sofa, enjoying the movie. He'd decided to let the man keep his pride and had quietly moved back down the stairs before giving a loud cough and heavily trodding up to their living room, finding the movie switched off and Sherlock sat in his chair, strumming and tuning his violin. Good to know that being sick wasn't a time when he would let his pride get in the way.

It was only a few more minutes before the movie was on and John was back in the kitchen, the coffee done and the kettle not yet to a boil. Switching off the stove he moved to get a Lemsip packet and dumped the contents into Sherlocks favourite mug, pouring in the water soon after and stirring it up before adding a little sugar to hopefully make it better for the man. Coming back into the living room with his little offering, he set it on the table. "Alright, love. Drink this up and hopefully it'll start you getting better," he said gently, to which the man looked at the mug with disdain. "It'll taste awful," he grumbled before coughing into the blanket. "Your nose is so clogged I doubt you'll be able to taste anything," John pointed out as he sat on the very edge of the sofa and picked up the mug to give to Sherlock.

With another throaty grumble the man moved to free his arms and took the cup in hand before attempting to sniff it. Once that failed he took a sip and made a disgusted face. "Needs more sugar," he complained. Sighing, John could already see where this was going and nodded. "Alright. Be back in a tick," he said with a forced softness and took the mug from him. Going back into the kitchen and adding just a little more sugar, John stirred it in before returning and waiting for the disapproval that was sure to come. Sure enough it did. Once Sherlock took a sip of the now more sweetened lemon drink he shook his head disdainfully. "Doo sweet... try again," he said, handing the cup back and waving a dismissive hand as the Muppets sang in the back ground.

Biting back a grumble, John moved to the kitchen and seeing as the kettle was still holding rather warm water he went about making up a fresh cup of the Lemsip. Attempting to add in a good amount, but not too much sugar. He returned five minutes later, much to the annoyance of Sherlock, and once again was sent away with the claim that it wasn't sweet enough. Feeling like there was a pattern here, John nodded and went to stand in the kitchen, picking up a teaspoon and pretending to stir in more sugar before heading back with the exact same cup. Once he handed it over to Sherlock he waited.

Taking the cup from his mate, the detective took another sip and this time made a gagging noise. "Doo sweet! Honestly... make another," he grumbled and went to hand back the mug. Noting that there was a lack of mug taking, Sherlock glanced up to find John, arms crossed and a pointed expression on his face. "You filthy liar. That is the exact same cup as before with no extra sugar! Now, you are going to drink it and you are going to watch your Muppets and I'm going to go and see if Mrs. Hudson has any soup for you for lunch later," John stated as Sherlock brought the disgusting lemony drink back to his chest and begrudgingly began to sip in the hopes of appeasing his doctor.

Happy that he was finally listening to him, John moved out of the flat and down the steps to Mrs. Hudson's flat. Once he explained what was happening and received a sympathized look and empowering hug, he was handed both a can of tomato and a can of chicken noodle soup. Walking back into his own flat he found the mug placed back on the coffee table and upon further inspection found his darling fast asleep on the sofa. He had managed to drink almost the entire cup while he'd been gone and knowing that he'd actually listened to him brought a soft smile to Johns lips. He went back into the kitchen and set the soup aside on the counter before getting out a mug of his own and pouring out some much deserved and greatly needed coffee.

The rest of the morning was spent with him taking just keeping watch over a sick and sleeping Sherlock, deciding against getting dressed for the day due to the fact that he honestly wasn't going anywhere. It was a couple hours later that a little groan could be heard from the sofa and an almighty sneeze that shook not only the rafters, but what felt like the very depths of Johns soul.

"DJ'oooohn! Lemsip didn' work.... it's lies!" Sherlock grumbled pathetically from the sofa.

"That's because you drank one mug of it and you manged to get yourself a nasty cold. This is what happens when you don't listen to me," John said as he set his laptop aside for the moment and stood up. Sherlock scowled at that statement and pulled the covers up a bit more over his face so that only his narrowed and glasz eyes were peeking out. "I don' listen do you all the dime. I'be neber godden sick like dis before."

Hearing that Sherlocks speech was getting more difficult due to congestion, John had to take a moment not to chuckle before sighing and nodding. "Fair point. Now. Do you want some lunch now? I got some soup from Mrs. Hudson. We have chicken noodle and tomato," he said as he started for the kitchen.

"Domado!" Sherlock called out. John, being the bastard that he was and still upset about the Lemsip incident, decided to have a bit of fun. 

"Sorry, what was that?" he called back, already getting out the can opener for the tomato soup. 

"Domado!" Sherlock called again and John had to bite back a chuckle as he smiled widely and started opening the can. "Sorry... did you say chicken?" he asked. 

"Domado! Domado! Domado!" That finally did send John over the edge and he started giggling ridiculously. "Oooh... _tomato_. Right, yes... of course. It'll be done in a moment," he called back and in reply got a muffled _'badard'_ followed by a sneeze.

The rest of the day moved along in this vein. Once the tomato soup was heated and Sherlock had managed to eat at least one bowl full after forcing John to start the Muppets movie from the beginning, it appeared the man was on track to start feeling better. Around 7 p.m. Sherlocks eyes seemed less feverish and his congestion had moved to just a few sniffles and a slightly pink nose. Looking over at him, John gave a light smile before turning back to his laptop and Sherlock watched the bloody Muppets movie for the fourth time now.

"I hope you're starting to feel better, love," he offered as he chicken pecked his way through a few more sentences of their case thus far. Sherlock gave a little nod, taking his eyes from the screen and looking over at his darling. "Thank you for... putting up with me," he said, his diction far more understandable now.

John smiled gently and nodded. "Of course. That's what you do when you love someone. You put up with their constant complaining, their whining, their childish behaviour and every minor tantrum. Then there are times when you take care of them when their sick," he said with a teasing smile and received the Union Jack pillow to the side of the face.

Seeing as Sherlock felt spry enough to throw things, John set his laptop aside and picked up the discarded pillow, moving over to a now wide-eyed Sherlock who was holding his hands up to protect himself. Instead of smacking him, John merely set the pillow at the other end and moved to carefully lay down on his darling. "You're lucky I'm a good doctor and care about my patients on the men or else I'd have retaliated," John murmured as he snuggled against Sherlocks chest as the detective wrapped his arms around the man. "Yet you feel no compassion for flopping down on me with your body weighed down by jumper-AH! J-John, dohon't! I'm sihihick!" Sherlock squeaked as he found a few well placed prods along his ribs. The attack only lasted a matter of seconds before John stopped with a giggle. "It's what you get you prat. Next time you should listen to me. Then we could have avoided this."

Once settled down from the attack, Sherlock smiled gently at the words and warning before giving a little chuckle. "And miss being taken care of by my doctor. You must be mad."

John couldn't help smiling at that and nuzzled up against Sherlock, the both of them quieting down for the evening as they watched Kermit, once again, attempt to save Miss Piggy from the evil pirates.

"You know... when you're sick you kind of sound like, Kermit."  
"Shush it, John."


	12. The Snowy Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's snowing in London! However, the avian consulting detective and his winged blogger take very different standpoints on the subject...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's snowing here and so I figured... hey... why not write a first snow fic? :)

There were two very, very different moods inside of 221B today. One was complete and utter exultation... the other was barely contained annoyance and possible a smattering of chagrin.

"It's snowing!"

".... it's snowing."

The first was said with barely contained... okay... with absolutely no contained joy at the powdery white discover outside. The second was said in a barely suppressed grumble and was more or less pointed towards the beaker the owner of said voice was currently using to measure out equal parts coffee and sulphate chloride... a special blend for some ears he'd picked up yesterday at the lab... when the streets had simply been a bit cold and not... snowy. John, however, was stood over by the window looking like a child on Christmas morning. He was still in his pyjamas after having just got up only fifteen minutes ago, his short hair in disarray on the right side where he'd been laying and his wings flared out as he stood there watching Baker Street turn white.

"Isn't it beautiful, Sherlock?" he called over his shoulder. The consulting detective gave a non-committal mumble and dumped in his first three ears. John turned around at that, still smiling. "It's just lovely though, isn't it? Everything's going to be crisp, clean, cold...,"

"If you're not careful you're going to run out of c-words," Sherlock said as he started taking notes on what was happening in the beaker. John scowled at him for a moment, but the blustery weather outside had him in too high of spirits to dampen them for long. "I wonder how long it'll stay? Do you think it'll stay for a few days and keep accumulating or do you think it'll disappear and not come back til closer to December?" he asked as he turned back toward the window.

Sherlock looked up at the question and stared out the little space of the window he could see just above Johns head. "If we're lucky it'll disappear before the end of the day and the city won't panic and go into a halt. I have work to do and taxi's stopping and people enjoying the 'season' aren't conducive to my research."

"You've got ears in coffee, love... how conducive can that be?," John pointed out to which the consulting detective made a spectacular 'hrmph' noise and turned back to his work. John chuckled at that and went back to looking outside, watching as a couple walked down the street and taxi's still managed to make their way here and there. He absolutely loved the city when it snowed. Well... to be fair he loved the city anyway, but when it had a sprinkling of snow it just seemed so... calm and peaceful and not the rather awful place that he was privy to seeing as he stood by Sherlocks side and helped him solve crimes of various natures.

While the ears had started to... bubble a bit, but otherwise simply stayed submerged, Sherlock turned his attention back to his mate, his own dark ebony wings giving a little shake as he thought of them getting covered and drenched in snow. "What do you find so wonderful about snow anyway?" he asked, still in a bit of a mood after the remark against his experiment... which he himself had thought was a bit farfetched, but he would be _damned_ if he would admit that to John! "It's just cold rain.... cold, fluffy, cold rain that's cold and gets in your wings and hair and makes everything just so...,"

"Cold?" John supplied with a little shake of his head as he turned back around to look at his darling. "There are many reasons why I like snow. I would ask why you don't, but you've sort of already given me your opinion on the subject." The detective nodded at that and turned a bit more toward John. "Yes I did and I gave very good reasons. Now... if memory serves you like it because it's 'crisp, clean and cold'.... if I didn't know better I would assume you were talking about me," he said, betraying a little smile.

John shook his head at that and gave a little huff of laughter. "It's close, but one of those words definitely doesn't describe you in the slightest. I'd hardly say that I love you because you're clean. I mean look at you right now you filthy creature... into elbow with coffee and ears," he teased and Sherlock mock scowled at him. 

"This could save a life one day, John!"  
"No it couldn't... but it could ruin a rather lovely cup of coffee."  
"Wait til you see what I've got planned for the tea."

"Oh god...," John said with a little giggle, refusing to think of what else was in store for various body parts today and in various hot drinks. "Promise me that you won't touch the cocoa. I don't want to be put off of it by finding... I don't know... beakers of cocoa and nostrils strewn about he countertops." His expression softened somewhat after that and he moved over to his darling. "But really, love. You're not cold... and anyone who says differently is a liar and will be forced to deal with me." He bent down and pressed a soft kiss to the mess of dark curls he loved to play with, not noticing the soft blush or timid smile that came over Sherlocks features.

After a moment and trying to control the blush Sherlock cleared his throat. "So do you only have those three reasons for liking snow?" he asked, trying to change the subject lest John see the little state he was in and started up another game of 'How Red Can We Make Sherlock Blush?'... honestly, how did he put up with the army doctor sometimes?

At the restated question John moved to drape his arms over Sherlocks neck and rest his head on top of his darlings, basking in the fact that he could do this for once and not the other way around. He would definitely enjoyed this while it lasted. "Well... I also like it because... I didn't think I'd get to see anymore snow at one point," he explained softly, Sherlock giving a small frown at that and moving to take one of Johns hands to play with and scan over. Smiling at the soft touch, John went on. "You never really appreciate certain things until there's a chance that you won't have them anymore. There were many things I didn't appreciate before Afghanistan. Pizza.... fall leaves.... tea... no wait, tea I've always appreciated," he chuckled and got a soft huff out of Sherlock who remained quiet. "... and then there was snow. It's just... opposite of what I experienced and I like it because of that reason the most I guess."

Once John had finished explaining his rationale behind enjoying snow, Sherlock felt oddly guilty for berating it and continued to look down at Johns hand, studying the small scar on his index finger from the slip of a scalpel and the little freckle on the underside of his wrist. "I'm glad you get to enjoy snow, John," he said after a moment, slightly lost for the correct response. John still smiled though and moved to wrap his wings around Sherlock and rock him slight from side to side. "I'm glad I get to enjoy snow too," he murmured, turning to press a kiss to the mans ear and feeling his darlings shoulder hitch up at the touch. He giggled softly and gave him a light squeeze. "And just think... if it stays then we can go out and play in it!"

Sherlock had been rather enjoying the little moment between them, but at the mention of playing in the snow he shook his head. "Nope... absolutely not," he said as furtively as possible causing John to put on his best pout. "Awwwww... come ooooon! Sherloooooock!" he whined pathetically and swayed the man all the more, making it difficult for Sherlock to remain serious as he started to laugh. "No! Bad, John! Let me go!" he chuckled and John shook his head. "Only if you promise to play in the snoooooow!" he whined again and accidentally swayed Sherlock too much to the side and sent them both toppling to the floor in a pile.

Once Sherlock had gotten his wind back and deciding his ribs weren't broken he turned over on the floor to look at his ridiculous mate with a fond smile. "Fine... but only because I fear you pushing me out of more chairs like the big bully you are unless I agree," he said, giving the mans stomach a poke and making him giggle and swat his hand away. Johns smile was bright at the answer, however, and he pulled the man close. "Good. You should always agree with what I want. Makes it safer for you."

That statement got a scoff from Sherlock, but he didn't retort as he enjoyed being in his mates embrace. Who knows... perhaps playing out in the snow could be fun? For the first time in his life, that he could remember, Sherlock actually hoped that the snow would stay.


	13. The Snowy Situation pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wintery day with Sherlock and John....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read this and enjoyed the little drabbles I've written up. Sorry this last one took so long, but I hope that you enjoy it just as much as the rest! :)

It appeared that the snow really was going to stay and while Sherlock had been more than willing to wish for it.... he was now slightly regretting it.

It was about 11 a.m. that Sherlock was found standing near the door as his flatmate and partner fluttered around the house gathering everything they would need apparently. Sherlock had been forced to put on a jumper (much to his chagrin) as well as his scarf and jacket. John, meanwhile, had managed to find the most atrocious holiday jumper he could find and put it on, followed by a jacket of puffiness that knew no bounds. Then there were the boots, the gloves, the wool cap and...

"There!" John said as he placed a bright blue wool cap on Sherlocks head, making sure to fluff up the white cotton ball that was on top. Sherlock merely grumbled, his arms crossed over his chest as he knew he looked ridiculous, but had resigned himself to bask in this wintery wonderland along with his darling to make him happy.

"Remind me again why you've put more layers on me than there are on an onion?" he asked. John merely gave him a pointed look as he finished zipping up his jacket. "Because if you get sick again I'll never forgive myself," he said with an endearing smile toward his darling which made Sherlocks heart give a little flutter... his expression softening. "Not to mention if I have to watch 'Muppet Treasure Island' one more time I might go insane," John giggled as he walked past Sherlock and toward the stairs. The detectives softer expression morphed into a haughty one as he followed his mate, his wings splayed a bit in agitation. "It is a masterpiece!" he called to John who only giggled harder. "Careful, Sherlock, if you don't calm down you won't be able to fit through the door... again. Remember last Thursday?"

Sherlock scowled more at that, but took a few deep breaths, his wings closing a little behind him as he saw Johns own ahead of him practically fluttering with excitement. My god he was going to regret this... he could already feel deep down in his bones. Maybe he could say he was feeling queasy and get out of this?

"I'm so glad that you agreed to come out and enjoy a proper wintery day with me, Sherlock. It means a lot," John said softly as he looked over at the man.

Well... apparently he wouldn't be claiming sickness then.

It wasn't long before the front door was open, both men were outside and the arctic blast of the new day cut through Sherlock like a jack knife. John, however, seemed utterly unphased by any of this... then again the man was like is own walking furnace so of course the snow and wind wouldn't bother him the least... the bastard.

"Come on then... what do you want to do first?" John asked with a bright smile as Sherlock stood there slightly hunched and regretting a few things in his life. After a moment's pause he gave a little shrug.

"Considering that this is your day.... why don't you decide what we do first?" he asked, not wanting to bog down the day with saying _'lets go back inside'_

John looked over at his partner and looked at how completely miserable he looked, his heart softening a bit and his eyes almost apologetic.... the key word there being almost. Before Sherlock could so much as prey on that moment of weakness he found a rather cold, rather slushy snowball smack him in the face followed by his mates loud laughing moving away and up as he took off.

"YOU BASTARD!" Sherlock shouted out at the man, soon tearing off after him though he had no idea where he'd gone. From the sound of the manic giggling up above he figured the his darling avian had taken to the skies. Right... this was war. Scooping up a handful of snow he moved spread his wings ready to fly up and beat John to death with... ahem... _throw_ the snowball at him only to find himself being pelted with the damn things. It appeared John had found a rather nice bunch of snow up on the roof of 221B and had no compunction about dive bombing them on his poor, miserable, darling.

Sherlock, for his part, had soon realized what was happening and after running around in a circle had taken cover via a trash can lid. "You... are in SO much trouble, Watson!" he shouted out, waiting for a break in the barrage of snowballs before he attempted to fly up.

Meanwhile, John was having a blast! It was hysterical watching Sherlock struggle with something so simple as a snowball attack. There would be so much teasing in the future that it was going to be ridiculous. He should have gotten Mrs. Hudson to film this for the blog.

It was only a few moments later when John realized that he had run out of usable snow and nothing filled with too much water to give his darling a concussion. Looking down he noticed that Sherlock hadn't missed the break in his attack and the evil grin he was getting struck fear right to his wintery wonderland of a soul.

"Oh shit," he whispered before turning mid-flight and taking off for the park.

Sherlock was right on his heels... well... wings really. He was cold, he had snow still melting against his back and driving him insane and also driving him to get back at his bastard of a lover. "You get back here this instant, John Hamish Watson! You are going to pay for that!" he hollered out to the man who only flew faster, ducking and spinning to the left in one of his rather unfair army maneuvers. He really needed to get John to teach him some of those moves, as it was it made it more difficult to catch the man and so he had to think ahead. After a moments thought he decided to trick his darling. He feigned going left and as John ducked to the right so did he, latching onto the man around the middle and effectively trapping him against his chest. However, the sudden weight and surprise sent them tumbling down toward the ground and it was only with far too much effort on Sherlocks part that they landed in a soft heap rather then getting broken wings and fractured tailbones.

The landing had been in a rather fast amount of freshly fallen snow, John ending up on his back, arms and legs sprawled out. Sherlock.... Sherlock had not landed so gracefully. He was face down in the snow, but in the air and one wing standing straight up.

"Moo marf a frap!" came his muffled reply, bringing John back to the moment. He turned his head to look at the curly haired man and started giggling like an idiot. "You... y-you look so stupid," he chuckled as Sherlock popped up out of the snow like a rabbit.... a very disgruntled and red faced rabbit. That only made John laugh more and he had to turn on his side as he curled up from laughing so hard his stomach hurt.

Sherlock wanted to stay angry, but seeing John like this really made that difficult and before long he couldn't help giving a little chuckle of his own. "In case you didn't understand me... you. are. a. prat!" he said, tossing some snow at the man as he moved to stand up and brush himself off. As he stood he noticed the imprint John had left beside his own rather haphazard one.

"You made a snow angel," he said without thinking, causing Johns laughter to quiet a little. He moved to lay on his back again, looking at the man curiously and sitting up carefully so as not to disturb the imprint.

"I thought winter wasn't really your thing? You didn't delete snow angels?" the army doctor asked curiously, moving to stand up with the help of the detective and going to stand by his side as he turned to look at the imprint.

At the question Sherlock smiled a little and shook his head. "I did some research last night. I didn't want to seem too out of depth with all of this," he said softly, giving a little sniffle as the cold continued to get to him... especially now after his clothes were soaked.

The explanation made John smile softly and he turned to press a kiss to Sherlocks now rosy cheek. "Thank you for this, love. But come on... lets get you back home so that you don't get sick again," he said, wrapping his arm and a wing around the man to keep some of the cold off him. Sherlock smiled at the kiss and kind gesture. "You're welcome, John. Then... maybe later once I can feel my toes again... we can come back and make a snowman? Or a snow fort? Or go ice skating? Or..,"

"Right... okay... I get it, you did research," John chuckled. "But I think that all sounds wonderful. But for right now... I simply want to get home, get you a rather fetching Christmas jumper and just warm up with some hot chocolate."

This all sounded perfectly marvelous to the detective and he leaned against the man. "I love you, John," he murmured softly as they made their way out of the park.

"I love you too, Sherlock."


End file.
